


Messiah

by SomeRainMustFall



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Continuation, Cover Art, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, John is just...a nightmare of a person really, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Past Child Abuse, Post Episode: s01e10 Silent Night, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Gil Arroyo, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, Whump, Withdrawal, extra individual tags are added before chapters if necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 181,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: Malcolm wets his lips, swallows hard, exhales a breath that comes out as a soft sob of pain.“They’ll find you,” he whispers. He means it as a threat, a last resort, something to scare John off, but he isn’t surprised when all John does is laugh."No, no, no. You see, that right there...that’s why we need to go somewhere private. Somewhere we'll have all the time in the world."He grins, all teeth and malice, and leans to whisper in Malcolm's ear."Somewhere no one will ever find us.”
Comments: 1240
Kudos: 968





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Who wants some Malcolm whump to tide over these two months? Because oh, boy...
> 
> I have some plans.
> 
> (Slight change to the canon ending because one punch wasn't enough to satisfy me.)

* * *

**[art on deviantart by ghoulpals](https://www.deviantart.com/ghoulpals/art/Messiah-Fanart-Prodigal-Son-838934322) **

* * *

"I know you're here." 

Malcolm raises the gun, tries not to let himself feel afraid as he slowly steps forward down the silent alleyway. He's not afraid. He'd allowed himself to get hurt once, and he won't let it happen again. 

"Paul," he says, and then, a bit louder, “ _John_.”

It’s the cold that’s making his teeth chatter. He's _not_ afraid. 

He goes further. He might have called for back-up by now, if they were here. If anyone actually knew where he was. If he hadn’t been stupid enough to decline the call...to _trust_ John’s grandmother. How could he not have seen the signs? Another personal bias, an inclination to trust the elderly as much as the young, especially someone blind and coming across so _helpless_ until—

He's _so close._ He has the upper-hand, doesn’t he? He has a gun. He has a _chance._ That’s all he needs. A chance.

He just...needs... _answers._

He nudges open the shed door. "Let's talk, John!" 

There's movement behind him, and he's not quick enough to turn before hands are on him, wrenching the gun from his grip and then slamming a fist into his stomach, knocking the air from him. 

"Okay,” John Watkins says. “Let’s _talk,_ little Malcolm, shall we?" 

He reels his arm back, and smashes the butt of the gun over Malcolm’s head.

The world spins, and Malcolm falls. He chokes on a wheeze, struggles to fill his aching lungs. He sees John, approaching from where he had been hiding in the corner, but he can't make out anything more than a shadow, can only hear the blood rushing in his ears.

John tucks the gun into his waistband, humming. "We _have_ to stop meeting like this. You just keep coming back for more. I mean, really...how many times do I need to beat you down before you _stay there?_ ”

Malcolm blinks hard. He manages to get one arm steady on the ground, but before he can even begin to try and prop himself up on it John lands a heavy blow between his eyes, and he’s seeing stars, staring up at the ceiling again.

“Can’t talk here, though," John says, kneeling down to grab his shirt, pulling him up. Malcolm’s eyes flutter, and he feels blood dripping hot down the back of his neck. 

“We don’t want your friends interrupting us, do we?”

Malcolm wets his lips, swallows hard, exhales a breath that comes out as a soft sob of pain. 

“They’ll find you,” he whispers. He means it as a threat, a last resort, as something to scare John off, but he isn’t surprised when all John does is laugh. 

"No, no, no. You see, that right there... _that’s_ why we need to go somewhere private. Somewhere we'll have all the time in the world." 

He grins, all teeth and malice, and leans to whisper in Malcolm's ear.

"Somewhere no one will _ever_ find us.”

He strikes Malcolm again, across the jaw. Malcolm feels himself falling back, but he never hits the floor. He keeps falling, deeper, until there is nothing.

There’s a moment or two that he surfaces, ever briefly. He feels cold all around him, feels something pulling on his legs. And then his eyes crack open, and he’s staring groggily up at the man he hasn't fully seen the face of since childhood. It’s clearer than ever, now, however dazed he feels.

"Remember me?" John coos, and Malcolm's heartbeat speeds up. His wrists and ankles are bound tight, something he only vaguely realizes as he attempts to move, but then his limbs are numb again, and it doesn't seem to matter.

There’s something above them, and it takes him a moment to recognize it’s the lid of a trunk. He’s in the back of a car, and even barely conscious, he can realize just how _bad_ that is. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. He’d started off today on desk work, picking through files, with plans for a family _dinner,_ this _isn’t happening_ _—_

He tries to speak, but there’s a piece of tape firmly over his lips; he doesn’t know if he could have formed words even if there wasn’t. John snickers, reaching in to tilt Malcolm’s head to the side, and then pricks his neck with something sharp.

"Ssh, I know,” he says, capping a syringe and pocketing it. “We have _so_ much to catch up on, don't we? But you just sleep now, little Malcolm. We'll be there before you know it, and then we can talk _all_ you want.”

The trunk closes, a final, resounding thud, and now, as exhaustion weighs down on him, sending him down, far deeper into darkness than he’d been before…

_Now_ Malcolm is afraid. 


	2. Missing

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Gil shifts gears, and Dani chews on the inside of her cheek, pausing only to click her tongue in disappointment as once again Malcolm’s phone rings once and then goes straight to voicemail. 

She hangs up, and dials again. It must be the twentieth time she’s tried. With JT on his way to Bright’s place, and Swanson with her team trying to track down his cell, it shouldn’t be hard to figure out where he’s gone, right? And yet, there’s still a cold swell of anxiety bubbling up in her stomach, and she tastes blood as he once again doesn’t answer.

“Damn it,” she mutters, slamming the phone down on her thigh and shoving a nail between her teeth to gnaw on. She hasn't fallen back into the habit for years, but it's the last thing on her mind now.

“ _Damn_ it,” Gil echoes, slowing down, and she straightens up in the seat, frowning at the sight of the swarm of news reporters outside the Whitly’s front door. 

“The hell’s goin’ on here?” 

“Nothing good,” Gil says, parking as close as he can and reaching for his badge as they get out.

“Alright, alright, make a path, hey! Police! _Move!_ ” 

“Police?” someone shouts, and then microphones and cameras are shoved in their faces, flashes from photographs blinding them as they climb the steps. As used to it as they are, there seems to be a certain fervor here; anything new involving the case of the century and they hit new heights with determination.

It’s all mostly garbled speech behind them, but one question does stand out louder to Gil than the rest. 

“Are you here about the bracelet?”

The bracelet? Oh, Jessica _didn’t…_

It takes a moment of pounding for Jessica to answer, pulling her coat closed as the cold wind clashes with the warmth from inside. “Gil? What are you—”

“Where’s Malcolm?” he asks, and Dani slides her way inside, calling out his name. Ainsley is at the table, but Malcolm isn’t. 

“Well, he’s—he’s not here,” Jessica says, shutting the door behind him as he enters and rubbing her hands together to warm them up. “He said he was on his way, and then...well…”

“He never got here? _Ay..._ ” Dani paces for a moment, breathing out, and then pulls out her phone to call again. And again. _Pick up...come on!_

Jessica grabs at Gil’s arm, both to get his attention and to support herself as the realization that something is very, very wrong falls across her pale features. 

“Gil,” she manages, “what’s wrong?”

He falters with his answer, clearing his throat to start again. “We don’t know if anything is, yet.”

“Yes you do,” she says, tightening her grip, digging her nails in. “Where is Malcolm? Where is my son?”

He exhales slowly. “We don’t know.”

Her face falls. She'd probably been _expecting_ something of the sort, the way she reads Gil like an open book, but she was not prepared for it. She gasps, rushing back to the kitchen table to grab her phone just as Gil’s rings.

“Is it—?” Dani knows she’s being too hopeful, and tries not to feel worse when Gil shakes his head, putting it on speaker. 

“Go ‘head, JT.”

“He’s not here. No clues on where he mighta—what the hell happened to his TV? Thing’s shattered...”

“That was me,” Jessica says, offhandedly, and gives no further explanation. Maybe she’s assuming one isn’t needed, but she’s assuming _wrong._

“Oh. Great,” JT says. “Point is, he’s not here. Where you want me next?”

Gil waits. He watches Jessica whisper a pleading voicemail, hang up, dial again, and then sit down with a hand over her mouth.

“Give me a minute,” he says. “Stay there. I’ll see where the FBI is with the GPS and text you where to meet us.”

Ainsley hovers beside them, almost like she’s trying to overhear, and as Gil ends the call she asks, “Is he okay? What’s going on?”

“Maybe nothing...did you tell them about the bracelet?”

Ainsley rolls her eyes, gesturing back at her mother. “That was all her. You didn’t catch it? Real compelling, with the picture and all.”

“The picture,” Gil mutters, running a hand through his hair. That damn picture he’d thought he’d just managed to _misplace._

Jessica is still calling, but she spares an awkward glance over at him. 

_Now's not the time._

Colette answers in two rings. “Tech’s still working on putting together everywhere he’s been today, but it looks like the last time he used it was at an address for a...a Matilda and Benjamin Watkins.”

Dani shrugs a shoulder at the names, and Gil squints, murmurs them under his breath as he tries to recall if he’s heard them before.

“Actually…” Collette goes on, and there’s some static and a bit of rustling on her end. “Actually, that’s where it goes dead. He shut off his phone.” 

“Send me the address,” Gil demands, hanging up before she can respond, and he points at Jessica. She looks at him, tearful and desperate, and it aches deep in his chest that he has nothing more for her.

“Keep your phone on. Both of you. Call me if you hear from him. Dani, let’s go.”

**x**

“There’s something up,” Gil says, flicking on his police lights as he peels the car out onto the snowy streets, showing Dani the address on his phone. “Why’s he all the way up there this late, huh? He told me he had a lead, but if he had a lead, he should have come to _me,_ he should have called for _backup,_ he should have—”

“Gil,” Dani says, and he loosens his grip on the wheel, takes a deep breath.

“I thought he knew better than to go somewhere alone. After what happened last time…”

Dani smiles weakly. "Are we thinking about the same Bright?" she asks, and Gil scoffs as she dials again despite knowing by now that it’s useless. Maybe it’s more for herself, to feel a little better knowing she’s doing _something._ He'd been so out of sorts today, and she'd noticed the trembling in his hand, heard him call himself _broken_...

She couldn't have known. Malcolm had been going home for dinner. He'd gotten himself there and back plenty of times all by himself. So what had gone wrong this time?

Gil tilts his head and squints again. “Watkins,” he says, and then his knuckles go white. “Wasn’t there a Watkins on the suspect list for the Junkyard Killer?”

Dani sits up straight, feels like a bolt of lightning shoots up her spine. “John Watkins. But you don’t think—” She looks over at him and winces. “—he’d go alone…?”

“It’s the same Bright,” Gil says, and drives faster.

**x**

JT happens to get there just a minute before them. He leans inside when the woman opens the door, holding up his badge and looking around. He's not entirely convinced there's something to panic about yet. Bright had held a gun to his head this morning and then _giggled_ when he found out it was loaded. Surely he could do something as stupid as leave his phone off when he shouldn't.

"Bright! Yo! You in there?"

There's tugging on his coat. “Excuse me? _What_ is going on? Who are you?”

JT waves the badge, then again, and then really looks at her. “Police, ma’am. My partner’s been here, tonight, hasn’t he?”

“Partner?” She looks around, thoughtfully. “Oh, no. No, no one’s been here. Just me. Perhaps you have the wrong house!”

JT scratches the scruff on his chin. Why was Bright hanging around here? What leads could possibly come from a random, seemingly normal home like this? “No, ma’am. Mind if I take a look around?”

“I do! This is my house, officer. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

His phone rings, and he steps away from the door and turns to answer. “Gil, I don’t think—”

“Malcolm’s after the Junkyard Killer.”

JT purses his lips, glances behind him, and lowers his voice. “I’m _really_ hopin’ you’re not about to tell me it’s actually the ninety-year-old blind lady that lives here.”

“No. Watkins. I didn't text you the name with the address because I didn't think it was important, but that name was on your list. John Watkins! He might not be there, but Malcolm _thought_ he was there. Here, we’re pulling up—”

“What is going on?” Matilda Watkins demands again, looking in the direction of Gil’s car as the tires screech, and JT ignores her, jogs up to the other two.

“Go around,” Gil orders Dani, and waves at him. “Go with her. I got the house.”

“Got it,” JT says, and follows Dani around the house, checking the alley. When they come up with nothing, and get no call from Gil that Malcolm’s somewhere inside, Dani is at an absolute loss. She considers calling Colette again, thinking maybe they’ll have more information by now, because Malcolm _isn’t_ here, they were _wrong_ —and then she frowns, and shines her flashlight towards a dark spot in the snow by her feet.

  
“JT,” she breathes.

“Aw, hell,” he says, pulling his gun out. 

“There’s more. Look.” 

“I got your back. Go.”

Chewing on her cheek again, she heads towards the shed at the end, and then gasps as she pushes the door open.

“ _Jesus,_ ” JT mutters, and dials Gil. He's _more_ than convinced now. “Hey, oh, man. We’ve got blood. A lot of it. Whole line of it from the shed to the driveway. Looks like some drag marks, too.”

“I got blood in here, too,” Gil says, kneeling on the rug by the kitchen table. 

“Blood?” Matilda gasps. “On _my_ floor? Whose?”

Gil stands, taking a deep breath, and hopes to God it’s not Malcolm’s. There's too much of it. Too much for him to still be okay, and Gil just can't have that. He _won't._ No. _No._ “Get backup here, and an APB out on John Watkins. I’ll update Colette.”

She answers on the first ring this time, and sounds like she’s absolutely confident they already found him as she sneers, “So what _exactly_ did he think he was doing?”

“He’s not here.”

There’s a pause, and then genuine surprise as she replies, “What?”

Maybe she'd thought she was doing what was best, or maybe it was personal, but Gil has to wonder if any of this would be happening if Malcolm hadn't been kicked off the case.

But it is happening. It can't be. But it _is._ And now they have to go forward.

“We’re gonna need your team now," he says. "We’re gonna need _everyone._ Malcolm Bright is officially a missing person, and...we’re pretty sure it’s the Junkyard Killer who took him."


	3. Nowhere

In the back of John Watkins's car, Malcolm Bright drifts in and out of consciousness. It's so dark that he's only aware of the difference by the vibration of the vehicle, the throbbing ache in his head, and the smell.

It smells like death. It burns his nostrils, makes his stomach twist, and he thinks the body of Detective Shannon is in here with him. He hasn't moved to check, though. He's stayed perfectly still on his side, because he's nauseous enough, and he can't risk the chance of making himself sick.

His muscles scream in pain at the position he's bound in, and the rope digs into his skin. Not tight enough to completely cut off circulation, but enough to make his fingers and toes tingle. He tries to use his tongue to dislodge the tape, but his mouth is too dry, and feels like it's full of cotton.

He shouldn't be here. Shannon shouldn't be dead. He'd only been gone a minute...a _minute_. He should have called Gil. He should have _answered_ Gil.

Did they know he was gone? Did _anyone_ know? Ainsley would be so mad he missed dinner, left her alone with Mother...it would almost make him smile, but he _can't_ smile, because his mouth is _taped shut_ , and—

The car jerks, a particularly rough stop, and he slides back, hits something fleshy and still warm, and he flails until he's away from it, choking back a gag.

His job is something different. He isn't trapped with them, forced to be just inches away from them. He can't help but wonder if this is how The Girl had felt, unable to see, not knowing where she was going, and scared _._ He's scared. No one knows where he is and he's _scared_.

The car gradually rolls to a stop. Malcolm opens his eyes, shifts, and then shuts them again when he hears the door upfront slam.

Are they here? Wherever here is?

The trunk opens, and Malcolm betrays himself with a violent flinch as snow and wind hit him in the face.

"Thought you could use the fresh air," John says, leaning against a taillight. "Must smell a little ripe in there." 

Malcolm glares up at him, and John clicks his tongue. "Look at you. Hardly presentable, all covered in blood. Don't worry. We'll clean you right up. Wash it off with the rest of your sins."

"Mmm—" Malcolm tries, and John smiles. 

"Relax! Almost there now. It's always been a hell of a drive, but now? In this weather? Damn."

A shudder wracks Malcolm, and John brushes snow off his own jacket before grabbing for the trunk. Malcolm protests, twisting, reaching out, and John chuckles, grasping his wrists.

"Did you know," he says, conversationally, as he undoes Malcolm's watch and takes it, "it takes twelve hours for a body to lose its warmth? Yeah, you probably know that real well. So get cozy with our detective friend there if you get too cold. I'll see you soon."

He shuts the lid, and Malcolm kicks out. He finds where his feet can land on the side that shakes the car the most, and focuses there. He's exhausted, and each blow loses strength, but it gets John's attention.

"I'm saving the rest of what I have for later," he says as he opens it again, grabbing Malcolm's throat, "so you're gonna make me get creative if you don't behave." 

Malcolm mumbles, and John rips the tape off with his other hand, barely allowing Malcolm to take in enough air to speak.

" _What?"_

"Wh—where?" Malcolm manages to squeak. 

"Where are we going?" John asks, and laughs. "Why, little Malcolm, we're going camping!" 

And then he, quite cheerfully, punches Malcolm again, and Malcolm doesn't remember anything else. 

**x**

His head is _killing_ him when he comes to. His thoughts are muddled, foggy, and he vaguely concludes he must have a concussion before slowly, slowly realizing the car is idling. He tries to open his eyes, but there's something tied around his head, a blindfold. He can hardly breathe, his lungs burning from the fumes of the old vehicle's exhaust, and by now he's desperate to relieve himself, but he keeps still, just barely. He focuses. He listens. 

He hears the engine, and beyond that, the low hum of the radio, but no longer any cars. They're off any freeway. He hopes not too far.

An eternity passes, and finally the car turns off. The trunk lid opens again, and he cringes in anticipation. The rope around his ankles is cut, and he's dragged out and to his feet.

It frightens him that he's not gagged anymore. Is that because no one can hear him?

Leaves crunch under his shoes, and through the slight crack he can open his eyes, he sees snow, dirt, maybe what looks like a trail.

He stumbles, legs shaking and weak, and John tightens his grip on his collar. "Walk."

"Which way?" 

"Whichever way I push you." 

He obeys, quietly. He tilts his head around, trying to pull the cloth up a bit more, and John smacks him. It isn't even all that hard, but it sends lights flashing through his vision, and he tries to keep his head straight lest he make himself even dizzier. He can hardly walk as it is.

"Stop," John says, and he does. John tightens his grip, tells him, "Don't do anything stupid," and then releases him.

Malcolm could. He could run blind, bound, injured. End up killing himself before he could even figure out where he was. But he's not stupid. He stays put. He breathes in deeply, and smells pine, and something familiar he can't quite place. They're in a forest, he concludes, and he doesn't like that. That means they're far from where they had started. _How_ far, though…is something he isn't even sure he can handle knowing yet.

Keys jingle, and then a door creaks open in front of him.

"Home sweet home, for now," John says, pushing him in and closing the door. It smells stale, long abandoned. "We'll get a fire going, have it warmed up in no time."

"Why are you—"

John's hand is around his throat again, pushing him back against a wall. 

"Don't make the mistake of thinking that because I haven't killed you yet, I won't kill you," he says, squeezing just enough Malcolm has trouble on his next inhale.

"No," Malcolm agrees. "I-I'm not. You're the boss."

"Good. That's good to hear." He pulls the cloth off his eyes, and grips a little tighter. Malcolm shifts, has to open his mouth to drag in enough air. It's dark here, too. A cabin?

_'Isn't it nice, my boy?'_

Malcolm jerks, chokes, and John chuckles. 

"Do you remember this place, little Malcolm?" he asks, and Malcolm blinks hard.

"No," he says. "I—I don't remember anything." 

"Well. We'll see what we can do to remedy that, huh?" 

He releases Malcolm's neck to grab the back of his coat again, and Malcolm sucks in a breath, staggering as he's pushed forward. 

"Right here's good," John says. "Sit."

Malcolm takes a step back, bumps into a wooden chair, and sits. 

"Behave," John tells him, and then turns and _leaves._ He walks right out the door, and Malcolm stares. It's a trick, right? It has to be. 

He pulls on his wrists, but the rope holds firm. His legs are still free, though. He can see. That's enough. 

The door is too loud as he eases it open, and as much as he expects John to be right outside the door, he's not. And when he steps outside, Malcolm suddenly realizes why.

They're in the middle of _nowhere._ He can't see anything but trees, in every direction, so densely packed together and suffocating that he's not sure if he'd know if it was morning yet or not. He could scream. He could run. It wouldn't matter. No one is here but them.

A strangled noise escapes his mouth. He's going to die here, and no one will _ever know._

"You could run," John calls, and Malcolm whirls to face him. He's gathered a pile of firewood in his arms, and he's grinning.

"Don't think you'd get too far, especially in the dark. Without one of these." He holds up his flashlight, then shines it into Malcolm's eyes.

Malcolm stumbles back. He hears something, his father's voice—

_'You could get lost out here. Don't be running out into the dark, Malcolm. I'd hate to lose you.'_

Another flash, a pain in his chest, Martin's hands wrapped around his own, pulling him forward—

_'Dad, please, don't—'_

Branches hitting him in the face, wind through his hair, he's running, he needs to _get_ _away—_

_'Malcolm!'_

Malcolm drops to his knees, cradling his head. The snow's chill seeps through his clothes, dampens them, but he was shaking long before that. 

"Why don't you come inside, eh?" John says. Malcolm looks up at him, so wearily, and John opens the door and holds it there with a foot. Invites him back into where he knows more painful memories are hiding. 

He doesn't want them...and he does, more than anything.

"Come on. I know you're just _dying_ to know what I know. So let's chat." 

Malcolm stands, takes in a gulp of icy air, and goes back inside.


	4. A Step Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so beautiful and I love you ;_; Literally the amount of love this is getting is insane, thank you so much!

He smells like perfume she doesn’t own again. A _cheap_ scent at that, nothing she would ever have in her collection. She only has the best. Only the best for him. 

Her son coos and smears mashed peas on the highchair's table with his spoon. Her husband snorts, reaching over to wipe them up, and touches her arm. 

"Everything okay?" 

Jessica smiles. "Of course, my love. Why wouldn't it be? My two favorite boys in the world…"

Martin hums, bashfully bats his eyes, and then slides his hand down to hold hers. "And my favorite woman." 

_Are you sure?_

It's only the second time. Only the second. Someone leaned too close to him at the hospital. A patient. A nurse. It didn't have to mean anything. 

"Mama," Malcolm says, and then drops peas on their hands, too, giggling. 

Martin laughs this time, poking Malcolm's nose and then tickling him until he screeches in delight, and she's happy. Of course she's happy. Why wouldn't she be? She trusts him. He loves her. And she loves him, more than anything.

She's not just happy, she's _perfect._

**x**

“Mother,” Ainsley begins, cautiously, “how exactly is this helping?”

“It’s _not!”_ Jessica shouts, throwing another of her ex-husband’s medical books against the wall and then slamming the cup of writing utensils off the desk in the room she had never, ever wanted to enter again. “There’s just got to be something in here, _something_ —him, ohh, _him_ —I know he knows, that miserable bastard of a man.”

Ainsley dodges a pencil, and Colette Swanson picks up one of the books on the floor. “Ms. Whitly. Go upstairs. Wait for a call. The phones are all hooked up. If you hear from him, we’ll know where he is.”

“It’s _him,_ " Jessica says, breathing hard. "He knows. I want to talk to him." She puts a hand to her forehead. "No, I don't. Oh, Lord. Yes, I do." 

"We're combing through his papers here. If he has anything, we'll find it. Let us do our job. Stay out of our way."

Jessica takes a breath, holds her head in her hands, and storms off upstairs. 

Ainsley follows, touches her mother's shoulder when they're in the library between rooms full of police, and Jessica turns to her, tears in her eyes. " _What?_ "

"Come here," Ainsley says, and brings her into a tight hug. 

"Oh," Jessica sobs, burying her face in Ainsley's shoulder. "My boy. My baby boy. I told him, I told him this job was no good for him, I—I—"

"We'll find him, okay?" Ainsley rubs her back, gently, and closes her eyes. Her mother's hair smells like peppermint, like ginger, like Christmas and safety and _home._ They should have been having short but amusing conversations over dinner just hours ago. They should have been drinking wine and getting a bit tipsy and ending up laughing about whatever parts of the past they could bear to talk about, usually whatever Ainsley could recall that didn't involve Martin.

Instead, this. A nightmare.

She pulls away, holding Jessica's shoulders. "You haven't slept…"

"I'm not sleeping. I'm not sleeping until he's here."

Ainsley nods, going over to the table in the corner, and pours a glass of liquor. "Here, maybe—"

“No,” Jessica says, before turning away, going back into the dining room to wait by the phone. 

Ainsley has never seen her mother refuse a drink before.

She downs it herself, slowly, and then steps over to the window by the front door. Some reporters have left, some are new. But it's enough. More than enough to get the word out. Her family, the most exciting in the world. 

Maybe she can use it to bring him home.

**x**

Colette sips her cup of coffee, pursing her lips as her team moves around her, leaving no part of the Surgeon's basement office unturned. 

She grabs one of them by the arm, and they turn to her, ready to serve her anyway they can. She's been good to her team. Loyal. Trustworthy. Ready to put her life before theirs. Malcolm could never say the same.

"Put an APB out on Malcolm Whitly, too," she says finally.

"Isn't that the MP?"

She drinks again, and turns. "It's just a precaution," she says, but it's not. She doesn't mean it as one. The timing of this disappearance, right as they were closing in, doesn't sit right with her. Not at all.

"Yes, ma'am," they say, and she walks.

**x**

He's sitting back in the chair, toes curled in his wet socks, and he isn't close enough to the fire to stop trembling.

_Maybe that's the point,_ Malcolm thinks, looking up only as John stands to throw another log in.

John says nothing, doesn't even glance at him, sitting back on the couch beside the fire. He's waiting for Malcolm to get uncomfortable enough to break the silence. Malcolm isn't sure he wants to.

He _has_ to. 

"The Girl," he croaks out finally, and John stretches, sighs and scratches his beard.

"Straight to the goods, huh? Ah, you never were one to dawdle. A stand up little guy, following his father, just a step behind." 

He reaches for a decanter on the table, pours a glass of whatever liquor is inside for himself. "How about a drink? You must be thirsty." 

"No," Malcolm says, and then shifts. "I need to use the bathroom."

John takes a sip, nodding. "So use your legs, and walk down to it. You're free." 

Malcolm raises his hands, and John smirks.

"So to speak, anyway." 

"Right." Malcolm stands, wobbles a little, and feels John's eyes on him as he makes his way down the hall until he's out of sight. There's something nagging at the back of his head, and he shakes it. 

_'Where are you going, Malcolm?'_

He looks back, but John hasn't followed him. A pain shoots through his chest, and when he turns again, hands reach out to him from the darkness, more than he can count, fingernails scratching against his skin.

_'Malcolm!'_

He cries out, covers his face as he gasps for air, and then looks up again. He's alone in the hallway. Alone. He's okay.

No, he's cold, beaten, and in a forest with a murderer. That's not, by any definition, _okay._

_'Maaaaaalcooooolm…'_

He digs his nails into his palms and goes forward, slides into the bathroom and slams the door. He breathes out, resting his head on the back of the wood, and then feels for a light. It clicks, and illuminates the room with a single, dim light bulb. They have power. There's a generator somewhere. This isn't just a cabin in the woods, this is somewhere John, if not Martin, had been often enough to need electricity. 

He needs to get out of here. If he can steal the keys to the car, _maybe..._

The blindfolded walk, though, is what makes it difficult. He doesn't know what direction they'd come from, and they'd walked a good while. Maybe if he sounded the alarm enough times, he could follow the sound...but likely it would echo, confuse him, get him lost. That's something to worry about _after_ he figures out how to overpower John in this weakened state, though, if he even can.

And that's _after_ he gets his answers. 

He is appalled at the man who looks back at him in the clouded mirror when he goes to leave. He looks _monstrous,_ his entire face smeared with dried blood from where John's punches had split open the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lip, speckling red all down the front of his shirt. He can't even wash it off. He couldn't even properly button his pants back up. His fingers and hands are discolored, now, but he's not sure if it's from the cold or the rope. He doubts John would agree to loosen it for his comfort.

He opens the door, goes to turn the light off, and stops. In the darkness he hadn't noticed, but now he can just make out the bottom of a staircase by the front entrance. 

John had told him he was free. How was he supposed to know whether or not he was expected to return immediately? 

The stairs loudly creak under his feet, and still he keeps his steps as quiet as he can. It’s not a large cabin, and the upstairs has only two doors. Another bathroom, and a bedroom that he stops dead upon entering.

_‘Malcolm, my boy, what are you doing?’_

He shakes his head, closes his eyes.

_‘You should be asleep. Big day tomorrow.’_

He’d slept here, in this room. Him and his dad. John had been downstairs, he knows, he _remembers_ , because—

The sound of chains scraping makes him jump back, and his breath catches in his throat. The bed in the middle of the room, the blankets, moving, just barely, and beneath it—

_‘Malcolm!’_

He trips in his haste to turn, slamming his hand against the light switch. The bulb above him flashes so bright it dizzies him, makes him stumble and fall to one knee, and then it pops, shatters glass over the room. 

Over the bare feet standing in front of him.

_‘Find me…’_

He can’t breathe. He can't move. His chest aches. The feet step closer, and muddy, decomposing hands close around his throat.

_‘Find me!’_

He screams. A hand claps over his mouth, nails scratch at his body, and he fights against it, against them _all,_ screams again until his face is covered with something soft, something soaked in an all too familiar, sweetened scent that spins every sense off into another unreachable direction the second it hits his lungs.

_‘It was all a dream, Malcolm. Only a dream. Just sleep.’_

Malcolm’s eyes flutter shut, and he sleeps.


	5. Something

“Malcolm?”

Gil looks over to the kid, and then to his wife, who smiles at Malcolm from across a table covered in food. 

“You haven’t touched your food. Do you want me to make you something else?”

Malcolm glances at them all, and then cringes under the attention. He shakes his head, picking up his fork to push the food around.

Jackie squeezes Gil's hand. On Gil's other side, Jessica Whitly fills her glass with a second helping of wine, and helps cut her daughter's meat into smaller pieces for her.

She had tearfully confided in Gil earlier that the doctors want to inpatient her son, because he's skin and bones and _barely_ even that. It's their first celebrated Christmas after the arrest, and more pain shouldn't be on their minds. They should be happy, or at least content. They deserve it more than anyone. But it doesn't work like that; life rarely does. And that's why they had invited them to dinner, so at least they wouldn't be alone. 

He takes a drink of his own wine, and the table is quiet again. He reaches into his pocket, and takes something out between two fingers.

Malcolm eventually takes a bite of mashed potatoes, and looks like nothing in the world has ever pained him more. 

“That’s good,” Gil encourages, smiling at him, and lifts his hand. In it is one of the lime candies Malcolm likes so much, and he gestures. 

_Little more?_ he mouths. Jackie sees the light from the chandelier reflecting off of the shiny little wrapper in her peripheral, and she smiles down at her food.

Malcolm audibly sighs. He rarely speaks, but his face is always a whirlwind of emotion. Irritation at the bribe, the fact that it'll work. Sadness, because sure, he'll finish his potatoes, maybe scrape a few bites of the rest of it into his mouth, and he’ll be rewarded, but afterwards they’ll still go home to an empty house, to ghosts of his own screams and nightmares of what had gone on there, to his father gone.

Not gone. Still in his head. But not there with them. Now for an entire year, and Gil knows nothing is easier. If anything, it's worse.

When Malcolm starts to look too sickened to continue, at his limit, Gil slips him the candy under the table. Malcolm pops it in his mouth and relaxes, satisfied for a moment, and his mother finishes her glass and pours a third. 

Jackie intertwines their fingers, and he kisses her temple.

Maybe not as merry a one as he'd hoped, but a Christmas all the same.

**x**

When she passed, Gil stopped celebrating. He never went to the yearly party thrown at work, and he didn’t decorate. She’d been the one into all that. He'd loved it, how happy it made her. He'd loved _her_. 

But without her, he just didn’t _care._ It was just...business as usual. Anything that reminded him of her was off the table, because he simply couldn’t handle it. 

He cried on the first year. Watched reruns of shows the second. Turned into bed early the third. The exact last thing he would have expected to be doing on the next, on _any_ Christmas, is fearing for the life of that boy they'd watched grow up, scrummaging around the childhood bedroom of the one who took him away for _anything_ he could use. CSU was still combing the alley, the street. Every cop in the state had a description and plate on the car. They had to find a lead. They _had_ to. Malcolm had to come home.

His phone rings, and he answers, “Powell?”

“Ah, man, Gil, you’re not gonna like this.”

His mind goes to the worst, pictures the report of someone having found Malcolm's body along the side of a highway. “What?”

“Colette. She just put a warrant out for Bright's arrest.”

“ _What?_ ” he repeats, and then, unthinkingly, ends the call before she can respond, dialing Swanson’s number. 

“Lieutenant,” she greets. “How can I help you?”

Gil laughs, the sound piercing. “Just what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ll assume you mean the APB and not the work my team and I are putting into investigating.”

“The murderer or Bright?"

"Is there a difference?” she asks, and Gil’s fingers ache with how hard he grips the edge of the dresser beside him.

“That is my—” He seethes for moment, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ve known that kid for twenty years. You understand me? He is _not_ —”

“Oh, I understand. I understand a lot of things. Like how we have another dead cop, and Bright goes missing the second we get a name of who killed them. That doesn’t sound even a _little_ strange to you? Or are you letting your relationship with him blind you? Because I’m pretty sure that’s why, somehow, no one in the family knew there was a serial killer living with them. And speaking of Martin Whitly, exactly what did you think you were doing, giving Ms. Whitly evidence? That was not approved, that _shouldn’t_ have gone out to the public—”

“What she did is _not_ the problem, it’s—”

“It’s Bright,” she interrupts. “ _Bright_ is the problem. He’s _always_ the problem. He’s been a pain in the FBI’s ass since he passed the exam, and—"

“And he's been _abducted!_ ”

“Has he?”

“We sent you the crime scene photos. You saw the blood. You saw the results for the clothing threads.”

“Partners fight. Could have just been a disagreement on what to do with the body.”

“Partners? Are you serious? He is _not_ —”

“Look,” Colette says. “I’m still trying to find him, same as you. That’s the goal. Find him, find Watkins.”

“And if you can arrest him in the process, maybe throw him in jail, well—that’s just all in a day’s work, huh? I get it. Guilty until proven innocent. Alright. I'm busy. I’ll call you with any new information. I can expect the same?”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

He wonders how he doesn’t crack his phone screen with how hard he hits it to hang up, and he kicks out at the dresser with all his strength. He just needs—

Something drops down underneath it.

Gil frowns, pulling the dresser aside, and finds a dusty, leather-bound book. Flips through the pages, and finds the scribblings of a child. 

_I hate him,_ covers one page, written over and over. Entire paragraphs cover the next.

This, he thinks. 

This might work.

**x**

Dani doesn't look up as another box is placed on her desk, three more beside her feet. She bites on a nail as she flips through files they'd pulled out of the storage unit, and tries to focus. 

"This is it," JT says. "Last one."

All this to go through, but she worries it won't be enough. She worries that they'll go through all of it and still have _nothing_. 

"Powell."

She straightens up, rubs her eyes, and looks at him. 

"What are you thinking?"

"All that blood…" she mumbles. "If—"

"It's not his!" Edrisa says, sliding through the door, and Dani breathes again, never happier to see her. "The blood on the carpet isn't his."

"It's Shannon's?" JT asks, and Edrisa lowers her head a bit and nods. 

"So he's dead," Dani says. "Where's his body? You think Watkins took it, too?"

JT scoffs, leaning against his desk. "How thoughtful. Didn't leave it for his Nana to clean up."

"Oh, yeah, they're bringing her in now," Edrisa replies, and JT arches a brow.

"What are we gonna do, ask if she saw anything?" 

"No...more like why there's a whole...child-sized dungeon thing in the closet."

"Pardon?" Dani manages, and Edrisa shows them a folder of the pictures CSU took. She sucks her teeth, and then looks up as Gil enters, holding up his find.

"What's that?"

"I think it's Watkins's journal. It was hidden, enough dust on it that I don't think it's been touched in years. Think it's from when he was a kid." 

Dani reaches for it. That sounds like answers to her. Gil lets her have it, and she's ever grateful.

"There's...something else," Edrisa murmurs. "The blood in the shed...in the snow. That's…" She swallows hard, and looks like she might be sick. "That _is_ his. And we found his hair, and...fibers of his suit in the drag marks, and then more drags from the back of the house with Shannon's blood in them. They were both dragged to the car. But—he was alive." 

It's silent for a moment, and Edrisa clutches her clipboard to her chest. "Is. He _is_ alive. He's still alive." 

JT leans more of his weight onto the desk. Dani spits out her nail and begins gnawing on another.

"Keep going through the files," Gil finally says. "I'll take Watkins. Powell, find out anything you can from that. I want to know everything about this kid's life growing up. _Everything._ "

"You got it," JT says, and Dani nods. 

"He's still alive," Edrisa whispers, and then she wipes away a tear and leaves them.

Badly injured, but alive. Of course he is. He can't be dead, because Dani wants to have him around. She _likes_ to hear his banter, his ridiculously posh way of speaking, his excitement whenever he's working a new case. She likes to hear _him._

She's lost so much. She's lost _everything._

She can't lose him, too.


	6. Just Getting Started

Malcolm is five, and he wakes up sweating. He can’t remember what he dreamed about, but he's unusually frightened. Mommy is asleep in the bedroom down the hall, and he knows he shouldn't bother her, because the new baby rarely lets her sleep at all. He doesn't want her to be mad at him. He wants her to be happy, like she is when she gets enough sleep.

He searches the house, and then cracks open the door to the basement. He hears his father's voice, and then someone else's.

"Daddy?" he calls, making his way down, and then there's a loud, metallic noise and he gasps, tripping down the last two steps and hitting the floor.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm expects to be scooped up, hugged tight and kissed until he feels better, but instead his dad grabs him under his arms and yanks him roughly back to his feet before shaking him.

"What the _hell_ are you doing? I _told_ you, you're never to come down—"

Dazed, Malcolm starts to cry, grasping at his father's hands. "B-but I—I had a bad dream!"

His dad's face softens, turns into something much less scary, and then Malcolm gets his hug. He nuzzles into the warmth of his father's favorite cardigan. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry...I was just _scared,_ I…"

"Oh, my boy," his dad sighs. Malcolm looks up at him, sniveling, and then catches movement from behind them. 

There's a man, one he's never seen before, in the shadows. Malcolm doesn't know why, but he doesn't like this man. 

"Daddy?" 

"I'm sorry you had a nightmare," he says, so softly. As quickly as it had come, the anger is gone, and he sounds normal again. "Come on. Let's get you some warm milk and get you back to bed, okay? Your mother would have a fit if she knew you were up this late."

Malcolm nods, reaching up, and his dad lifts him to rest on his hip. As he's carried upstairs, Malcolm looks over his father's shoulder. The man in the shadows waves at him, but he doesn't wave back.

"Who was that?" Malcolm asks, sitting at the kitchen table, and his dad smiles, setting a glass in front of him and ruffling his hair.

"Nothing to worry your little head about. Drink."

Malcolm drinks, and then he opens his eyes, back in bed, with morning light coming through the curtains and Ainsley's vague cooing coming from down the hall. 

His dad tells him he didn't even come down to the basement, that he dreamed that, too. And there's no reason for Malcolm not to believe everything his father tells him, and so he does.

He would never lie to Malcolm, right?

**x**

_'Right there, Malcolm, okay? Remember what I taught you—'_

_'Dad, please, I don't—'_

_'Come on, my boy. Everyone has to start somewhere.'_

Cold, he's so _cold_ , he's scared, _get away—_

He hits the floor, and wakes himself with a cry. It takes a moment for him to come back to himself, but when his vision clears, he sees that he's lying beside the couch, and his limbs are tangled in a blanket. His head throbs, makes him groan his discomfort, and he hears a snicker in response. 

"I knew you were disturbed, but that? What a _display."_

He sits up, looking to where John sits at the table, a refilled glass of liquor in his hand. His legs are crossed at the ankle, and he's leaned back, relaxing...like one might be in front of a television.

John had been watching him sleep, he realizes. Just... _watching,_ and a deep discomfort settles into Malcolm, more than what he's already been feeling. The way John stares at him is almost predatory, waiting to see even the slightest of weaknesses to take advantage of, to pain Malcolm just a little more. Malcolm's been his toy ever since that phone call in the basement, caught up in whatever game John had been planning all along, and now...now there was no one between them, no one for what seemed to be _miles,_ and nothing Malcolm had to use as defense.

"I mean, really," John goes on, "how have you made it this long? I'd think you'd've tossed yourself out a window by now."

Malcolm laughs quietly, humorlessly, and leans against the couch to try to compose himself. He tastes blood, and presses his tongue to where he'd bitten into his cheek. He brings his knees up to his chest, and startles when his bare feet touch the floor. His coat has been removed, too, he realizes, his wrists rebound only a fraction less tight. He wiggles his toes, and is relieved he can feel them again.

"Your shoes and socks were wet," John explains, pointing to where they, along with his coat, are drying by the fireplace. "Can't have you getting sick. Not so far from any help. Not with all that's left to do." 

He breathes in. _So far from help…_

He couldn’t have been out long. Chloroform is short-acting; he'd been out twenty some minutes when he'd dropped it onto his pillow at home. But how long had they been driving before? He doesn't know how long the first drug had kept him under, or the blow after that. It's still dark, but he could be anywhere by now. There were a lot of forests in New York. There were even more outside of it.

Did they know? Were they coming? 

"I was here," he says. "With you and my father."

"Is that what you were screaming up there about?" John leans forward in the chair, grinning. "That's good. Anything else?”

He'd been _expected_ to go upstairs, Malcolm realizes. John seems to want him to remember as much as Malcolm does. 

His hands tremble, and he squeezes them between his knees. "The Girl. I-I remember The Girl. And I want—I want answers. You told me we'd talk." 

John gestures. "We're talking."

Malcolm has _had_ it with this—this _dancing_ around the subject. It reminds him of his father. He glares, as if he’s got any sort of power in this situation at all, and raises his voice. "I want _answers!"_

John hums, placing his glass down. "Always were such a curious kid," he says. "That'll be the death of you, little Malcolm. Remember that." 

He stands, stretches, and warms up closer to the fire as Malcolm picks himself up to sit on the couch. When he finally speaks again, he asks, "Remember the night we left?"

_'What's in the trunk?'_

Chains clinking, clinking, the whole way, the whole drive, _don’t look back_ —

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to focus. They'd left late. It can’t be more than a few hours of travel, if they'd then spent the night. 

"You do," John says, watching him over his shoulder. "Good. I asked if you could keep a secret. And well...you were lying when you said yes, weren't you?"

_'Dad…?'_

Car doors shutting, engine sputtering to life, and his father leaning over him, checking to make sure he was buckled in.

_'Ssh, kiddo. We're going to have so much fun. You'll see.'_

Malcolm squirms, folds his legs up under him and puts his face against his hands.

John pulls his chair closer. It drags on the floor, makes a noise that grates in Malcolm's ears, and he curls into himself just a little more.

"Why don't you keep your eyes open?" John asks. "You could probably see a lot more that way." 

"My head hurts," Malcolm says. "You pistol-whipped me." 

John sits down, much too close for comfort. "You have _such_ a problem with lying, little Malcolm. You think I don't see that tremor of yours?"

Malcolm clenches his fists, hides them in his lap. As easily as he can observe in others the gestures and ticks that give them away, it's humiliating whenever his own are enough for someone to do the same.

"They're flashes," he says. "They're... _slivers_. I can't...I saw her. In the...the trunk. You told me—"

_'Your dad has something real fun planned.'_

_'Really?'_

_'Oh, yeah. Let me ask you something, though, before I tell you...do you believe in God?'_

_God?_ What did that have to do with—

He feels fingernails on his arm, digging in, and he jumps away, blinking hard. John hadn't moved, hadn't been the one to touch him, but he clicks his tongue, starting to look agitated.

"Stop doing that—pulling yourself back. Think. _Remember._ " 

"I can't!" Malcolm insists, and moves to sit against the armrest of the couch, further away from John. The man is apart of this, far more than he knows yet. There's something _bad_ he can't recall, can only feel, vaguely, at the back of his brain. More than one bad thing, probably—all here, all at this cabin, where both of them had taken him. He doesn't want to be anywhere _near_ John. 

"You'd be real smart to start doing what I tell you to. Especially if we want this to work." 

"Want _what_ to work?" Malcolm asks, and suddenly John is lurching forward and grabbing his tie, pulling it taut until he wheezes, having to allow himself closer in order to breathe.

"Your brain’s hiding things,” John says, knocking hard on Malcolm’s head, and Malcolm stifles a grunt. "But you see, I told you. I think there's hope for you. I don't want to have to kill you. I want you to remember."

"Remember _what?"_ Malcolm whispers, desperately, and then John is dragging him up to his feet and towards the door.

"I’m a patient man, I like to think," he says, tossing Malcolm out into the snow like he weighs nothing. "But this? There's too much to do. Too much for us to be _careful_ unwrapping that ruined little psyche of yours."

Malcolm gets to his knees, snow biting into his feet, and then he gasps as John suddenly has the blade of a pocket knife at his neck. 

“Wait,” Malcolm says, gesturing his surrender with his hands, “ _wait._ John, I can—”

John uses the sharp tip to raise Malcolm’s chin up, digs it in just enough to hurt, and the words die in his throat as it constricts. John had said he wasn’t going to kill him, at least not yet, but instinct—and the thought of bleeding to death out here in the cold, alone, never to be seen again—keeps him frozen. John just watches him for a minute, and then he cackles. He pulls the knife away, then turns, dropping it as he walks off.

" _Stay_."

Malcolm slumps a little, breathing deeply. He squints, but can only see little glimpses of the flashlight through the trees. Where the hell is John going? Why is he out here? John is too confident he won't run, still has the keys, the gun, and who knew what else. 

Still, he crawls forwards, cautiously grabbing the knife, and turns it to the rope. It takes too long for him to get the right angle, and he can't cut more than a few threads before he hears scraping against the ground, looking up in horror as John drags Detective Shannon’s body over to him by the feet. 

“What are you— _doing?_ ” Malcolm doesn’t mean to sound so panicked, but the words come out high-pitched and whining, which John seems to delight in.

“Come on, now.” He stands behind Malcolm, crouches to his level, and then wraps his arms around him to grab his hands, flipping the knife to point towards the body. 

“I know he won’t bleed like she did," John says, breath hot against his ear, "but...go ahead.”

Malcolm's eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. It's not John's hands on him anymore, it's—

_‘Dad! St-stop! I don’t_ — _no!’_

_‘You can do it, son—just, right there—'_

_‘Stop! Stop! Please! Don’t make me—’_

Screaming. Not his. A woman’s. Dark blood seeping through clothes and then he _is_ screaming, and Martin is hugging him tightly, praising him—

_‘Sssh, good boy. Good boy. It’s okay. You're doing so well_ —’

He rips away, scrambles up and then falls again. “Get away! Stop! No!” 

‘ _Oh, Malcolm. You’re going to make me so proud, aren’t you?’_

There’s blood on the ground, on his hands, in the air, it’s suffocating, he's _drowning_ in it, all he can smell is _blood—_

Malcolm screams, past and present merging into one horrifying moment, and then he’s running for his life. He hears his father calling for him, feels branches whipping him in the face, tugging on his clothes, and he can’t _see,_ but he can’t stop, he can’t stop, he has to get away, he has to find help, he has to _get home,_ he can’t go back there, he can’t! 

_‘Dad, no! No!’_

He wants his mom, he wants Ainsley, please! Please, let him go home, he just wants to _go home!_

John watches, intrigued. He'd been right; Malcolm just needed to be triggered the right way and it'd set off a reaction, a memory. Maybe more intense of one than he'd expected, he thinks, but...a win is a win.

He's actually pleasantly surprised that Malcolm doesn’t immediately run into a tree in the darkness, and then he laughs maniacally. Malcolm is _so_ _fragile..._ and this is going to be _so_ _fun._

He turns on his flashlight, slips the pistol from his pocket to his waistband for easier access if needed, and starts off to follow him. He doesn’t run, though. He takes his time. Why wouldn't he?

Malcolm won’t get far. There’s nowhere to go.

"Come back, little Malcolm!” he calls, singsong. 

“We’re _just_ getting started."


	7. Stupid Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of self-harm.

It’s not that she’s really worried. She’s heard her brother screaming at night before, and he’s always okay in the morning. But this time...it just sounds _different._ Maybe more scared than usual, and Ainsley just wants it to stop, just wants everything to go back to how it was. 

No one ever smiles anymore. They hardly talk. Dinner is almost always silent. And Malcolm is _sad,_ more so every day it seems sometimes, and she doesn’t understand why. Her mother had said she would when she was older, but she’s eight now, _basically_ an adult. They should, at the very least, be able to tell her the truth about why Daddy doesn't live here anymore. 

_He hurt people,_ Mommy had said. But one time Ainsley bit Malcolm on the hand and left a mark that lasted for a week, and _she_ didn’t get sent away, so she doesn't know about that. Daddy never hurt her. He'd paid all his attention to Malcolm, anyway, but he'd never hurt Malcolm either. 

There’s a loud crash from down the hall, another shriek, and okay, _now_ she’s worried. She whimpers, throws back the covers, and runs into their mother’s room, shaking her.

“Mommy. Mommy! You gotta get up, something’s wrong!”

Her mother groans softly, but otherwise doesn’t move. She’s still fully dressed, and she smells like her liquor, soaked in the scent like the way she is when she doesn’t wake up until morning.

But not now. It can’t happen now, because Malcolm needs help, and Ainsley’s been told never to try and go in there, because he could hurt her on accident.

Another scream, and Ainsley doesn’t think she has a choice. She has to make sure he’s okay. She’s never heard it this bad.

“Mal?” she calls, slowly making her way out and down towards her brother’s room. She knocks on the door, and he cries out again. 

She opens the door, carefully, and turns on the light. Her brother's on the floor, writhing. His lamp lays on the floor, the bulb in pieces.

"Mal!" She drops down beside him, and reaches to shake him, even as he cries out and tries to pull away.

"Malcolm! Mal! Wake up! Please wake up!"

Malcolm's goes still, panting, and then slumps back to the ground. She fists his shirt, crying now, and shakes him again. "Mal? Are you okay?"

"Ains…" he mumbles, but he's still staring up at the ceiling, and she pinches his arm to try and get a more satisfying reaction.

Malcolm glares at her, swats her away with a hiss of pain. "Ow!" 

"I thought you were dying," she says, sighing in relief, and her brother slowly sits up and leans against the bed, a hand over his chest as it heaves.

"Feels like it," he says. He grabs Ainsley's hand, presses her fingers to where she can feel the racing pulse under his chin, and she gasps.

"Mal...Mommy won't wake up, what should I—"

Malcolm shakes his head, lifting his arm up towards her. "Just sit with me. Please." 

She curls against his side, and he holds her tightly. She can feel him shaking, feel his heart thudding, and then gradually his wheezing quiets down. His hand shakes the most, so she reaches for it and squeezes. 

Malcolm takes a deep breath, and puts his head against hers, closing his eyes. "Thank you." 

"Why do you do that?" she asks after a long silence.

"Nightmares," he replies.

"No. That." 

Malcolm looks down at where she's holding his hand, where his sleeve has inched up to reveal some of his arm, and he yanks it back down. "I told you, Ains. It's nothing." 

She remembers. They'd been playing, and then Malcolm didn't want to anymore after she'd touched it when he reached out for one of his toy cars. He'd told her he does stupid things when he gets real sad, and not to tell Mom, as if she listened to anything Ainsley said anyways.

"Doesn’t it hurt?"

"Yeah," her brother mumbles, and then shakes her hand out of his, reaches up to run his fingers through her hair. "But...sometimes it hurts less than everything else."

"That doesn't make sense," she says, because it _doesn't_ , and she's _serious,_ but Malcolm laughs softly, like she said something funny.

"No, it doesn't. I'm fine. Really. C'mere. Let me braid your hair."

She smiles and nods, turning to sit with her back facing him. She always likes when Malcolm plays with her hair. He's the only one who still gives her attention besides the people who clean and make dinner, but she doesn't want their attention. She wants her _mother's_ , she wants...

"Mal?"

"Mm?"

"Is Daddy coming back?" 

Her brother is quiet, and then he starts to part her hair. "No," he says. "No, he's not."

"I miss him."

Malcolm sighs, then holds her shoulders to hug her. His hand is shaking again, but sometimes she's not sure if it ever really stops.

"I know. But it's gonna be okay, Ains. It really is." 

Ainsley has heard that from a lot of people, but she only really trusts it from Malcolm. Still, she asks, "You promise?" 

Malcolm goes back to her hair, and laughs again. She doesn't know how every time she hears him do that, it sounds sadder. 

"Yeah. I promise."

**x**

"You think this good enough?" Ainsley asks, holding up a framed picture of Malcolm just before he'd left for Quantico, and her mother doesn't look up. She just stares down at her phone, even as Ainsley calls her again.

" _Mother_ ," she says, placing the frame in front of her, and Jessica startles as if she'd thought she was alone until now, as if there weren't police sitting at the very same table on their laptops.

"Oh, Malcolm," Jessica murmurs, touching the picture, and Ainsley pulls it away. 

"I told you. We're gonna find him. Okay? Look at me. Would I be talking to _other networks_ if I didn't think it would help? Come on."

Jessica smiles weakly at her, and then reaches up to cup her cheek. It's such an odd gesture of affection, something that, especially lately, Ainsley has been lacking, and she tilts her head into it.

"I _am_ proud of you," Jessica says. "Your _ambition_ is currently the bane of my existence, and I'd rather you have done _anything_ else—"

"I'll take that compliment on its own, thanks," Ainsley interrupts, and Jessica's hand drops down to the table again as she sighs. 

"It's a lovely picture of him," she says quietly, and Ainsley nods.

"Let me know how I do, okay?" She takes the frame, carefully opening it to take out the picture, and then takes a breath and is out the door.

Jessica bites her lip. She could turn on the living room television, but she doesn't. She really, really thinks about getting a drink, but she doesn't do that either. 

Instead she calls her driver, tells him to wait for her outside. 

"I'm getting some air," she says when one of the officers asks her. "No, I don't need anyone with me. I want to be _alone._ " 

Ainsley comes back in, and Jessica kisses her on the head as she passes. It completely stuns her long enough Jessica can get outside, and by the time Ainsley turns to ask what she's doing, she's disappeared out into the reporters.

"Where is she going?" 

Ainsley turns, looking at the same FBI agent they'd talked to downstairs, and puts a hand on her hip. 

"On a walk. Can I ask why one of them just asked me why there's an _arrest warrant_ out for my brother?" 

Colette forces a smile. "It's just a precaution," she says again, but Ainsley doesn't buy it for a second.

"You think he's in on it, don't you? You've _got_ to be kidding. Just because we're a killer's kids doesn't mean we're killers, too!" 

"No," she agrees. "You seem to be exceptionally well-adapted. Your brother, however…"

Ainsley raises her finger to point at the woman. "My brother would never kill someone. He _couldn't_. He's—he's _broken._ "

"And that's why I'm concerned," she says. "I caught your interview. You had a lot to say about him there, too. I might even consider that to be a possible trigger, depending on what happens."

"Who do you think you _are?"_ Ainsley demands, and when Colette simply leaves as someone calls her, she fumes, pacing for a moment and then following, peering into the kitchen.

"What've we got?" Swanson asks, over the shoulder of one of the agents on their laptops.

"Not much," he says, and Ainsley holds back a sigh. "We've been searching traffic light cameras around the area, but it's likely they've been taking back roads, being careful. Can't get a sign of the car for miles in any direction."

_They,_ she notices, bristling. They really thought Malcolm was apart of this. They didn't know him like she did, but they just weren't _listening._ Nobody ever listened to her!

Colette sighs, grabbing onto the back of the chair. "Watkins has made the trip before, wherever they're going. He knows how to avoid detection. Hell, he's been doing that for twenty years."

"Whitly did mentor him," another points out, and she nods, clicking her tongue and then waving them over.

"Ms. Whitly just left. Get an officer outside to follow her. I want to know where she's going. And you, keep looking. Spread out the radius another fifteen miles. They had to go on a main road sometime, especially if they're heading out of state."

"You think they are?" 

"I hope not. That's the last thing we need. Watkins and a Whitly, on the run." 

"He has a name," Ainsley says, and Colette glances back at her. "It's Bright, if you forgot. Not Whitly." 

She smiles, syrupy sweet. "He can change his name. Won't matter if he can't change the rest of it."

"He's _not_ a killer."

"I hope you're right," she says, "because I really hate to think of the panic that starting a nationwide manhunt for a serial killer that went undetected for twenty years and the Surgeon's son would cause."

"You can't do that," she says, blocking Colette's way as she tries to walk out of the room. "You can't name him like that, as a _murderer._ He might never work again, might have to leave the _state_ , he—it would put him in _danger_ , you can't just—"

"I respect that you care about your brother," Colette says, "that you love him. But at this point, it's best to let us do our jobs and hope it doesn't come to that."

Ainsley grits her teeth, gripping onto the archway as Colette steps aside to pass. 

"Why do you hate him so much?" she asks, and Colette pauses.

"I worked with him," she says. "For a good month, near the end of his employment. He put himself, and therefore _others_ , in danger, almost on _purpose._ Like he was looking for adrenaline, or...maybe he just didn't care. He'd get these...manic waves. He wouldn't sleep, he'd go off to solve things on his own against orders, bully anyone who told him to stop and then go do it anyway. He'd put anything and _anyone_ in harm's way if it meant he got the case."

Ainsley swallows hard. "He's got ambition," she says. "And he's never wrong." 

She looks at Ainsley, and something flickers on her face, gone before Ainsley can pinpoint it. 

"Yes, he is," she says, and then is gone before Ainsley can say anything else.

**x**

Gil supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when Jessica shows up at the precinct. She’s an unstoppable force when it comes to her children, always has been, and now that one of them is in _danger,_ the fact that she hasn’t already done something _really_ crazy, torn apart the entire city and found him herself, is astonishing.

“Jessica,” he says quietly, and she grabs onto his arms. 

“Tell me you have _something,”_ she whispers, so desperately, and he sighs. 

“We’re still looking through files. We know his name. We have his journal, we—”

“His journal? How does that help us?”

“Please, can you just—” He gestures towards his office, and she looks absolutely offended, as he should have expected.

“ _No._ My son has been _kidnapped,_ and I am not going to sit down and relax!” 

He offers her a small, comforting smile. “I know. I’m sorry for asking. The journal gives us an inside look at what happened to Watkins as a child. We’re looking for—for maybe hiding places, secrets, anything we can get out of it. Wherever he took him, he’s been there before. Possibly with Dr. Whitly.” 

“Martin?” she says. “My, God. That _pustule_ of a man, you—you need to talk to him. Have you?”

“Not yet. He’s still in solitary.”

"And you can pull him out!"

“Let’s hope we don’t need to,” Gil says, waving over her shoulder, and Jessica turns to see several officers leading an older woman into one of the rooms. 

“Look, I’ll be back. I have to question her.”

“He’s been gone for hours, Gil. How much longer can you wait?”

“I’m going to find him, Jess,” he says, holding her hands in his. “I promise you. I’ll do anything I have to, and you know I will. I love him.”

“You let him go off alone!” she snaps, pulling away, turning to wipe away tears before they can be seen. 

Gil takes a breath. He knows she doesn’t mean it, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. This is on him. “You can stay here. There’s coffee in my office. Just...I’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” she says, entering his office and sitting on the couch, slamming her purse down beside her. She bites on her nail for a moment, thinking, and then sniffles, reaching for her phone. 

“Yes,” she says when the line connects. “I want to talk about one of your patients, Dr. Martin Whitly.”

The NYPD aren’t the only people with power in this city, after all. 

**x**

Malcolm doesn't know where he is when his vision clears. He's bracing himself against a tree, his lungs burning as he heaves for air, but he doesn't remember how he got here. Doesn't remember anything but running from his father, except...

No. No, his father wasn't here. John was. John had made him recall something terrible, and so he'd run from John, too.

It's pitch black around him. He throws up, and can't see the ground it hits, or where his feet are. He can feel how cold they are, though, and only now recalls that he's barefoot.

There's a burning pain in his side, and he feels down to it with his hands, crying out as he bumps it and makes it worse. His fingers, not quite completely numb yet, close around what he finds, and he pulls. 

The knife. He'd fallen onto the knife. 

Warmth drips down his side, fire against freezing skin. He turns the bloodied blade around, saws at the rope until he can pull it apart. The knife drops somewhere into the darkness, and he doesn't care. He grabs at the wound, hugging himself tightly with his other arm, and calls out, "J-J- _John_?"

Wind rushes through the trees, and it's all he hears. There's a flicker of light in the distance that he thinks might be a flashlight, searching for him, and he goes towards it. He can't stay still or he'll die. He might die anyways. It really doesn't matter much.

Had he... _killed_ her? Had she already been dead, or...or had Malcolm been the one to cause it? 

_'Just like we talked about now...'_

He staggers, veers off to the left, then back, or maybe keeps going straight. He hunches over, shivering violently, and calls out for John again, even less coherent than the last time. 

_'You're going to make me so proud, aren't you?'_

He looks up, hoping to see another flash, and instead the ground gives out under him, and he's falling.

Alone, so scared—something warm on his hands, blood not his own—

_'It's okay, Malcolm. You'll come around. I know you will. You're my son.'_

He opens his eyes. He’s lying with his cheek against the ground, and when he tries to raise his head, it sticks. 

_'Malcolm…'_

His bloody fingers reach up, try to pry skin from ice, but he can't feel what he's doing. He hears her, though, too close, chain clinking, and so he pulls away, sobbing as some of his flesh stays behind. 

_'Maaaalcooolm…'_

Hands are suddenly under his arms, lifting him up, and he screams, because he thinks it's her. 

"You moron," John hisses, draping one of Malcolm's arms around his shoulder. "Get up. Hey! Stand up!"

Malcolm's head lolls, and John slaps him, jabs his elbow into Malcolm's side.

"Hey! If you don't walk, I'm leaving you. You hear me? Put—keep your eyes open! Put one foot in front of the other and _move!_ "

He can't open his eyes, but he can follow those directions, if only barely. His limbs are stiff as he leans heavily against his dad, and he just wants to go home now. It's too cold to be out camping. He should have gone with his mother and Ainsley instead. They were probably inside, warm...he's so cold...so cold…

_'Watch your step, kiddo. That's ice right there, and you wouldn't want to fall.'_

_'Can we come back when it’s summer? I wanna go swimming.’_

_'Of course, my boy. I have a feeling we'll be coming out here a lot more often, you and me.'_

No. No. He doesn't want to come back. He doesn't want to. Something bad happened here. Something terrible. Something…

He's choking, coughing up warm liquid, and then his nose is pinched shut and more is poured down his throat.

He flails, but a heaviness over him keeps his limbs pinned down. He opens his eyes, and John is hovering over him with a mug. 

" _Drink it,"_ John orders, and Malcolm doesn't have a choice. He can't breathe. He swallows until he's released, and then turns his head to the side and hacks up what entered his lungs. 

"Damn _idiot._ "

Malcolm blinks hard. Shadows from the fire dance up high on the walls of the cabin, and the couch is soft beneath him. He tries to move again, but a pile of thick blankets and the comforter from the bed on top of him prevents it.

John grabs his chin, presses a thumb against the wound on his cheek. He cries out, and John smiles.

"Good! You're warming up fast. You're gonna be just fine, little Malcolm. But oh, was that _stupid._ And I told you not to do stupid things."

He digs a fingernail into the torn skin, makes blood trickle down to his ear, and Malcolm yells louder. 

"You'll have to be punished," John says. "For this, and the rest. But not yet. I'd hate for you to not really _feel_ it. Because I'm going to save you. More than just your life. I'm going to save _you._ "

"Dad…" Malcolm mumbles, and John pets his hair.

"No, no. You _betrayed_ your father, remember? And that...that's a sin. You have so many sins on your shoulders. But we'll talk about that later. You'll repent, won't you? Tell me you will."

Malcolm is too tired to even think about pulling away. John strokes gently, almost comforting; it tugs him back towards darkness.

"Tell me yes, and I'll let you sleep."

Malcolm's going to sleep either way. He can't keep his eyes open any longer. But he weakly nods, just once. 

"That's right. Of course you will. I'll _make_ you. And then we can talk about where you'll go from there."

The Girl is over John's shoulder, in the shadows. Malcolm hears her wheezing, the chain clinking, water dripping. He hears the fire pop and crackle, and his dad's voice echoing in his ears. 

And then he hears nothing.


	8. Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief wait, work is lame. Now I'm off until next week! Writing time! It gets real good (well, bad for Malcolm) next chapter...
> 
> Thank you guys so much for every bit of love this is getting :'3

Through slightly tilted vision, Dani notices Bright refuse the paramedic's attention. Maybe he figures that, since the needle only poked his skin, since Carter Berkhead never actually dispensed what was inside, he doesn't need it.

But that _look_ he'd given Dani, after falling to his knees as Gil and JT entered at the last second. The look she'd seen him give Berkhead, as their hands met on the plunger, and he let it go. 

Let _himself_ go. Gave himself up to _die_. 

He needs help, probably far more than a simple medic can give him. She won't forget that look, not for a long time, if ever. The desperation, the fear, the relief. The pain she'd seen in his eyes when she cupped his chin, asked over and over again if he was alright until he answered.

He hadn't been going to let it happen, he'd said.

She didn't have to be an expert profiler to know he was lying.

Bright hops down from the ambulance opposite them and freezes mid-step, staring at them. She can't tell his expression from the distance, but it's only a second before he turns the other direction, disappears off into the crowd with his hands in his pockets.

JT is still sitting at her side, and they share a glance.

"I don't know," he says. Even after what Gil had told them, neither does she.

Gil pats the side of the ambulance as he returns, glancing over to maybe see where Bright has gone to before looking at Dani. 

"Come on. I'm driving you home."

"Gil..." she says, and he holds up his hand. 

"Five."

He frowns. "What?"

"Five fingers. I can see fine." 

"That wasn't a test, and this isn't an argument. I'm driving you home, or I'm putting you on desk work for a month."

Dani huffs, and JT snickers quietly. 

"Fine," she says, and Gil nods. 

"Good. JT, get home to that wife." 

" _Gladly,_ " he says, getting down, and Gil reaches for Dani to help her do the same.

"I'm not fragile," she says, pulling away to do it herself. 

"You're concussed. There's a difference. But alright, okay...just be careful." 

She takes a wobbly step forward, and Gil offers his arm. She rolls her eyes, grabbing onto him when she only makes herself dizzier, and then begrudgingly allows him to lead her back to the car.

"Bright go home?" she finds herself asking as they pull onto the road, and Gil shrugs.

"I'm sure. Didn't see him there anymore. Hard to really keep tabs on the kid, if you haven't noticed."

Oh, she's noticed. She isn't sure anyone could really know where he was with certainty if they tried. The way Bright slipped away from her upon seeing his mother, so fast she barely saw him leave. The silent way he'd entered the morgue, only letting them know he was there by voicing his thoughts and then almost, _almost_ shrinking under the attention he received. Just for a moment, he'd looked nervous, like he knew they didn't want him there. She feels bad about the hard time she and JT had given him now, especially after...

"He..." 

Gil glances at her, waits for her to continue. 

"Berkhead snuck up on me. Knocked me out. And then I just...remember hearing Bright talking. And I tried to use my knife, but he kicked it out of my hand. And then...I looked up, and Bright...he had the needle to his arm. I thought he was buying time, but...but then he was...he looked like he was..."

"What?"

"Begging," she finally says. "Begging Berkhead to kill him." 

Gil is silent aside from a deep inhale through his nose. 

"I don't know if—maybe it's the concussion, it's just—"

"Sometimes he'd spend the night," Gil interrupts, "especially right after his dad was arrested. Being in that house scared him. I saw a lot of what he was like, how he grew up, and I'm so proud of what he's turned into, but...he's always had a weight on his shoulders that he's not strong enough to carry."

She's careful with her next words. "Do you think...he would have?"

"To save you? Absolutely. He's reckless, stupid, but...he's not selfish, however he comes across."

"Kind of a...rich, pretty boy asshole type," she says, and he laughs.

"Pretty, huh?" 

"Don't even start."

His smile gets a little sadder. "He acts tough. He thinks he has to. He's had to work a hundred times harder than anyone to prove himself in this field, and the FBI still didn't think it was good enough."

She thinks about the sheer terror in Bright's eyes after his nightmare, the way he'd clung to her for dear life and trembled. The whimper he'd let out against her shoulder as he buried his face in it, like that was the only comfort he'd received in years and he _never_ wanted to let it go. 

And now, Gil's telling her he would have died for her. They'd met days ago, and Bright had already put his life on the line for hers.

"I'm just asking you to give him a chance," he says. "He's hurting, but he's not broken. And he's _not_ his father."

She takes a breath, and nods. 

"And you know..." Gil adds, pulling up outside her place. "You don't have to act tough all the time, either."

Dani smiles, just a little. She hates the way Gil gets to her, the father she never had in her youth. 

"Fine."

"Take tomorrow off, too."

"...Fine."

"Two days?"

"Don't push it," she says, ducking out of the car. "I'll see you."

"Night, Dani," he replies, and makes sure she's safe and inside before he leaves, just like he has every time before.

**x**

"Ten hours," JT says. "It's been ten hours and we got jackshit."

Dani pops her third aspirin, downs it with some water, and then holds the chilled bottle to her head, trying to get any sort of relief she can from the pounding behind her eyes. 

Hundreds of files, hundreds of pages in a journal that depicted the disgusting abuse that took place in that hell-house, so much it's no wonder what the victim turned into. An hours-long interrogation that led nowhere but an arrest pending trial for Matilda Watkins, who, when Gil had _really_ lost his temper, had dropped the innocent act, turned into what one could only describe as _the devil incarnate,_ and called Malcolm a filthy sinner who deserved whatever her son would give him.

No secret hideouts. One nearby wooded area he’d used to go when he skipped school to drink, but CSU had come back with nothing. One sighting of a car that " _kind of_ " matched the description of John's getting on the freeway hours before, and then a dead end. Officers interviewing his old coworkers at St. Edwards, only to find he was apparently the most forgettable, uninteresting person that had ever worked there. They know _everything_ about him, and _still_ it’s not enough.

This can't be it. This _can't_ be it. There has to be more. They have to find him. He didn't just...disappear into thin air. 

And yet...he had. Ten hours without so much as a hint of where they were. Ten hours...all that could have happened in that time...

Her phone vibrates, and she picks it up to read the text message. 

JT steps over, itching for some good news as much as she is. “Who is it?”

“Swanson.”

“And? What've they got?"

Dani chuckles, a little deliriously, and drops her phone back down. "Jackshit."

"Fantastic."

She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair, and then stands and grabs her coat. “I can't just—I’m not sitting around anymore.”

“Gil said—”

“And then Gil _left._ No idea where he went.”

“To find Bright’s mom, I thought. She kinda disappeared earlier.”

“Didn’t notice. Don't care. I’m going to St. Edwards.”

“Didn’t they already—”

“They did. _We_ didn’t. You coming?”

JT weighs it in his head, tilts his head to the side, and then nods. “Alright. Yeah.”

"Good," she says. "Let’s go.”

It's a quiet drive. Dani has nothing to say, and although JT feels awkward in silence, always one to fill it by saying _something_ , he's careful to avoid that now. They get coffee on the way, and he puts hers on his card, too. Tries to help in the small ways he can.

"I don't like thinking the worst," she finally says as they pull into the hospital's lot, "but—"

"Then don't," he replies, and she snorts, looking over at him. He isn't serious. He looks just as worried as her.

She turns the car off, and they sit there for a minute. 

"He was just there," she murmurs, gesturing to where JT is sitting. "Right there. Drove him home two days ago."

He's not good at the whole... _emotion_ thing. He's got his wife, and he trusts her, and he can lower the shield he puts up at work around her. But then...Dani's family. Bright's family now, too. So he reaches over and pats her hand, still on the shift, and pretends he doesn't see how startled she is.

"I know. We'll find him. We'll find him _alive._ " 

She takes a breath, then nods. 

"What are we here for, exactly?"

"They asked about Watkins, right? I want to ask about Dr. Whitly. I want to know everything about him. This Watkins worked with him. So if there's no leads with _him_ , maybe…"

JT looks impressed. "A damn good idea. Let's get some answers, huh? Something good."

"Something good," Dani repeats hopefully, and they start off towards the hospital. 

She really, really doesn't think she can handle anything else at this point.

**x**

It feels _wonderful_ to be out of that tiny cell, back in his much, much cozier one. 

He's been in solitary before, of course. As long as he's not there _too_ long, it's never _too_ much of a problem. And he's such a _good_ man, so well behaved...someone would end up feeling bad for him before long. 

He's not a _perfect_ man, though he’s never claimed to be. He would misbehave now and then, years ago, and had just once been put away for longer than he could handle. But who didn’t? He saw plenty of it here, especially in group therapy. He took his time while the others talked to look them over, catalog every move they made, every stress reaction they gave and on which words. The lies, the truth. He knew everything about them without them having to say much, if anything at all.

These aren’t the people he should be categorized with. He shouldn't be at _group_ , forced to listen to them gripe. He isn’t anything like them. They’re lost, pathetic. Him?

Well, he doesn’t have a medical procedure named after him for no reason, does he?

“You’ve got a visitor,” Mr. David says, gesturing for him to hold out his hands. 

He smiles as the cuffs click. It can only be Malcolm, and oh, he had _missed_ Malcolm. He hadn’t even been able to call him in there, and what a shame! Things had just gotten good. He had been on television, after all.

And he hadn't gotten to see that _adorable_ little face, just the same after twenty long years, twist up into anger or confusion or fear of his games in too long. 

Oh, his boy. He misses his boy.

He faces the wall as the door opens, and shakes one of the tight restraints on his wrists. “My boy,” he greets, “how did the interview look on the big screen?”

“Manipulative.”

Martin turns, genuinely caught off-guard, and then steps forward. “Jessie! What a wonderful surprise. You look beautiful, as always. Merry Christmas. Well...very _late_ —”

" _Stop_." Jessica closes her eyes, composes herself, and paces to the side. She rubs her head, fixes her hair, and straightens her dress.

Martin tilts his head, draws a bit closer to her. “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

“Don’t act like you don’t _know,_ ” she says, and moves to the other side of the room. “Was this your plan the whole time? It wasn't enough to see him, you needed—you needed _control,_ you—you know what, I don’t care. I don’t. I just need you to tell me where he is.”

Glancing around, Martin gestures vaguely. “Who?”

The look that Jessica gives him wouldn’t have been more offended if he had _spit_ at her, and she huffs. “My _son._ "

Martin blinks. Processes the information, if but a bit slower than he usually does. “Malcolm,” he says finally, “is missing?”

She scoffs at him. “Yes, you bastard! Where is he?”

Martin isn’t a man who feels fear. Not in his youth, not as he aged. It’s what made him such a good surgeon. He was never afraid to lose people, to learn from his mistakes. He was never afraid of death, especially not anyone else's, and so he studied it. Mastered it. Became the best. Became the man that people, even now, looked up to, aimed to _be_ like. Minus the murders, maybe.

No, he doesn’t feel fear, but he also doesn’t know what to call the spark of brand-new emotion that chills him, all the way down his spine, at the news.

“He’s missing,” he repeats, more to himself, and then shakes his head. Tries to keep up the facade of composure when his insides have twisted. 

"Yes!" Jessica cries. "How many times do you want me to say it?" 

His eyes flicker to the clock. "Since when?"

"Nine last night." 

"And I'm _just_ finding out? You're _just_ telling me? Jessica, _I_ don't—"

The buzzer to his door sounds again, and he's about to bite out anyone who's interrupted them. 

And then the officer that arrested him enters the room, and suddenly everything is a lot more interesting. 

Coolly, he forces a smile. 

And then the man touches the shoulder of _his wife,_ asks what on Earth she's doing here, and he's not cool anymore. Not at all. Heat flushes his skin, and he bristles. His restraints strain, cutting into his flesh. 

"Same as you," Jessica replies, turning to him. Her position briefly blocks Martin from her view, and oh, that won't do, not at all. He steps to the side, clears his throat to get her to look at him again.

"Detective," he says. "Arroyo, was it? Yes. Of course it was. I'm sorry I can't be more _pleased_ to see you, but I've just been informed that my son is missing. What's the meaning of this?" 

"It's Lieutenant," Arroyo says, and then to Jessica, “I said _not yet._ ”

“And I don’t care. Malcolm doesn’t have the time.”

“ _What_ is going on?” Martin demands, through gritted teeth, and Arroyo looks at him. 

“Malcolm was taken last night.”

“By _whom?_ ”

“Your _mentee,_ John Watkins.”

Martin’s lip twitches. His fists clench, and he pulls on them harder. “John Watkins,” he says, and smiles again. “No. That’s not possible.”

Arroyo scoffs, puts his hands in his pocket and paces a few steps to the left, looking around at Martin’s belongings.

“John Watkins killed three people in the last two days. Two cops, and an innocent woman who got in the way. One of those cops was with Malcolm. And we found his blood. Drag marks in the snow up to where the car pulled out.”

“Blood,” Martin says. “How much blood?”

“He’s alive,” Arroyo replies, and Martin turns around, closes his eyes and breathes deep. 

“Where did he take him?” Jessica asks, and Martin scoffs, looking back at her. 

“Why do you automatically assume that I—”

“Because I _know_ you, Martin!” she says, and gets so close to that red line painted on the floor that Arroyo puts his arm out, just barely, just enough that Martin notices. 

And he knows.

And he's _furious._

"Whatever happened to—oh. Oh, no. I remember now. Oh, my condolences, Detective. Jackie, was it? Beautiful name." 

" _Martin_ ," Jessica hisses, while Arroyo adjusts his footing, “where did you go camping?”

“Well...where didn’t I go, Jessie? I loved camping. You know that.”

“You—” She takes a breath, tries not to reach across and strangle the man where he stands. “With _Malcolm._ The trip he’d been talking about, when me and Ainsley were at the Hamptons. The week before you were arrested.”

“Oh,” Martin murmurs, a little smirk inching up the edge of his mouth. “Oh, that _is_ a while back. Twenty years. Let’s see...where _did_ we go…ooh. Maybe Hunts Pond? Sundown, in Grahamsville...Sugar Hill, in...oh... _Watkins_ Glen...that _would_ be funny if you found him there, wouldn't it?"

Arroyo looks delightfully pissed, cutting him off as he tries to continue.

“I’m not asking for damn list of every forest in the state, Dr. Whitly.”

“Well, I’m...I mean, just look at my hair. Greys and all. I can’t be expected to remember something from so long ago, something so...insignificant. We were only there a day. It ended up being a little too cold. Shame.”

“Did you not _know_ it was the middle of winter?”

"Oh, Malcolm was always a persistent little thing. He would have been heartbroken had I said no! Oh, we spoiled them both so much, didn't we, Jess?"

_"Rot_ ," she replies in that sweetened tone, and Arroyo sighs, stretches out his fingers and then clenches them to his palm. 

"You were his mentor. You knew everything about him. Where would he go?"

"I wouldn't say I knew everything about him. I taught him…" He sucks air in through his teeth. "Precision. Appreciation. Patience."

"Something I've run out of," Arroyo says. “Listen—”

“Oh, I’ve been listening, Detective, and I’m afraid I just can’t help you. I don't know where he is."

Arroyo steps up to the line, gets right into Martin’s face without hesitation. 

“ _Listen._ If you know something, you tell me. You tell her. Right now. Because if I find out otherwise, oh...I will _fucking bury you_. Somewhere you won’t have books. You won’t have a _chair._ You won’t have phone time, you won’t have interviews. And you will _never_ have a visitor again. Not Jessica, not your daughter, and _especially_ not Malcolm. And don’t think I can’t, or that I won’t, because you see, Dr. Whitly, it’s not your son that’s been taken, it’s _mine_."

Martin’s chain tugs. He manages one more step forward before he’s at the end, and yet Gil Arroyo doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even _blink._

Blood stains Martin's sleeve. His lip curls up. He imagines slicing off each of Arroyo's fingers and toes, and then his limbs, _slow,_ and then making him watch while he removes his heart. 

"You're mistaken," he grits out. 

"I'm definitely not," Arroyo says. "So you can see why I'm as serious as I am about this. I need to find him, and I need to find him now. So once more: _where is he?"_

Martin smiles, tilting his head. He wishes Malcolm had never stopped him from tearing this man apart. “I don’t know a thing, Detective.”

Arroyo purses his lips, and nods. 

And then he _takes Jessica's hand_ , and they leave together.

Just like that. 

They're not _allowed_ to leave like that.

Martin’s always been _quite_ familiar with anger. He knows he lashed out at his family more than once, especially towards the end, but he had never _really_ hurt them. 

And now they believed he was holding his own son captive somewhere.

And _John._ Once like family, now a traitor.

He thinks of all the things he taught the man, and all the twisted ways he could be toying with Malcolm. 

Only _Martin_ is allowed to toy with Malcolm. 

His son. _His son._ No one else's. _His._

His heart is pounding, but he stays still while his cuffs are unlocked, and while a nurse wraps the wounds he created with them.

Then he takes a deep breath. Sits at his desk, cracks his neck, and clasps his hands, settling into thought, into patient planning. 

Fear is useless. But anger? Anger is productive.

Anger he can work with.


	9. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. THE WHUMP. I say, as if I haven't been whumping Malcolm since the first chapter.
> 
> TW for some non-consensual (but also not really sexual) touching, and probably the creepiest dialogue I’ve ever written in my life, but that’s all. I literally don't know how else to tag it. It's just...it's fuckin' creepy.

He's running again, with only one thought in his mind—he has to get away from them. He can’t do that, they can’t _make_ him.

He can't go back inside. They'll find him there. He doesn't want them to ever find him again.

He jerks on the car's door, dives into the front seat, and curls up on the floor, sobbing.

Clinking, movement, low groaning— 

_'Malcolm…'_

_No_. He shouldn't have come here. This car is _bad_ , _evil_ , he has to—

_'Malcolm!'_

Hands grab at him, choking, and he screams, has to _run_ —

Malcolm smacks full-force into something solid and cries out, falling back on his ass as blood gushes from his nose. He swears, cupping his face, and looks up at the wooden door of the cabin.

"What in the _hell,"_ John says from somewhere behind him, and Malcolm folds into himself. He can feel everything now. He can feel _too_ much. The pain in his side, his head, his cheek, and now his nose, for God's sake, it _hurts._ He runs his tongue over his teeth, checking if any are missing, and then pinches his nose closed with a wince. 

"I'm gonna have to tie you down for your own good, aren't I?" John asks as he approaches, and Malcolm panics. He pulls himself up and presses his back into the corner, kicks out and shouts at John to _stay there_. He can't control it. He's _terrified_. He thinks he _killed_ someone, and this man had a part in it. He can't be tied up again, he just _can't._

"You—you— _don't!"_

John grins, but instead of trying to restrain him like Malcolm expects, he just tosses him a blanket. "Cover up. You'll get cold again."

Malcolm clutches it, looking down, and only now realizes he's missing his clothes. Of course; they'd been soaked through, he'd have died if John hadn't—

John crouches too close, eyeing him up and down, and Malcolm's moving again without quite being aware of deciding to do so. He slams himself inside the bathroom, locking the door and sitting on the floor against the wall, holding the blanket tight around his shoulders. 

John laughs from the hall. "Why’d you run? Did you think I was going to hurt you? Oh, I watched you grow up, little Malcolm! We're practically _family._ "

Malcolm shivers, watching John’s shadow in the light under the door. “You _watched_ me?”

"It's a shame you can't remember me. I considered us friends. I was around your dad a lot, and you were always around him. His favorite thing."

"I'm not a _thing!_ "

"Don't sound so offended. It was cute. You adored him. And he did everything for you. Everything he could to—"

" _Destroy me_ ," Malcolm says, and John bodily shoves up against the door, makes Malcolm jump and gasp.

"Watch your mouth, _boy,_ " John says, and sounds much more like he had while crushing Malcolm than the sickly-sweet persona he's been displaying. "You have no idea how good you had it. No idea! The _gall_ you have. Spoiled little shit!"

"He groomed me to _kill!"_ Malcolm spits, holding a handful of fabric to his nose. "I didn't want that!"

"You're confused. You don't know what you want. You never did."

Malcolm scowls, grits his teeth so hard it makes his jaw ache. "Not that. I never wanted that."

"Oh, no? You think you're happier with him gone? Please. I checked in on you now and then after the arrest...you never looked anything more than _miserable_."

Malcolm is horrified. John had been _stalking_ him? Exactly how often was ' _now and then'?_ He could have hurt _any_ of them at any time, could have taken Ainsley or his mother away. But it was only _him_ John watched, only _him_ John wanted now. An obsession? His only link back to Martin? Why _him?_

"And then you went off to _Quantico_ , of all places...imagine my surprise when I saw you back in my junkyard. And oh, boy, going back to your father after that? After deciding to live your life as his traitor? He’d been so proud of you…you showed so much _potential.”_

"Oh, God...no," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. "Did I...did I…?"

"Speak up. Hard to hear you from in there."

"He made me hurt her, didn't he? He made me. And _you..._ " He shakes his head, pressing a hand to his temple. "You were there, you—"

_'You can't be shakin' like that, kid, you'll—'_

_'Relax. Everyone relax. It's his first time. Just take a breath, son, come on. You can do it. It's easy. I'll be right here to guide you.'_

Malcolm gasps. His chest hurts again in a sudden wave of overwhelming panic, and he lurches forward and heaves bile into the toilet.

John knocks, three spread apart sounds that somehow come across just as taunting as everything else he's done, if not _more_ so. He wants to intimidate Malcolm, and Malcolm has to stop making it so damn _easy_ for him. He's not helpless. He has more experience with criminals than _anyone._ He's injured, but he's _not helpless._

"Let me in. Come on, now. I just want to help. That's all I've done so far, isn't it? Warmed you up...fixed your side…I learned medical skills from the best, after all."

Malcolm spits, slumping back, and touches his side, runs a finger gently over a line of stitches. The blade hadn't hit anything vital, but it had gone deep, and retching had done nothing but tug them and worsen the pain.

That doesn't prove anything, though. It doesn't. He just didn't want Malcolm to die before he could get whatever enjoyment out of this that he wanted.

"Help me by letting me go," he finally says, and John laughs.

"No, not that. I’m starting to like having you around. Real amusing. Like watching a T.V. show. And we’re not done yet. Come out now, hmm?"

"We can talk," he says. "I can remember. I just want to stay in here."

"And you're used to getting what you want. I know that. Not anymore, little Malcolm. That ends now. It's time you learn." 

Learn? He was trying to _teach_ Malcolm something. But unless it happened to be 'how many blows to the head someone can take before the goddamn pain kills them', the man's not doing all that great a job.

"Learn what, John?" 

It's silent. His shadow is gone. Malcolm moves over to the door, presses against it. "John! Wait, did—did I kill her? _Hey!"_

_'Malcolm,'_ she whispers from behind him, and he slams his forehead to the wood. It doesn't make her leave. It just makes him dizzy, makes his vision falter and his headache increase tenfold.

John can’t do this, he _can’t,_ Malcolm's going to lose his mind more than he already has, he has to _know!_

Cold fingers trail along his leg, up his back, and then a hand claps over his mouth.

"No!" He jerks the door open, and John grabs him by his hair, drags him back over into the living room and tosses him on the floor. Malcolm tries to get up, and John shoves his knee into Malcolm's back and pushes his head down.

" _Stay there,_ " he orders, and, when Malcolm still fights, adds, "You want me to put you out again?"

" _No_ ," Malcolm mumbles against the rug, hardly able to breathe. "I don't want—I _can't._ "

"Then _calm down._ "

Malcolm struggles to inhale enough to reply, and then nods as much as he can. "O-okay. Okay."

"Good. Good boy."

_'Such a good boy—you're doing so good—'_

He squeezes his eyes shut, and then raises his head as John releases it and gulps in a breath. Focus. _Focus_. They can talk. He can talk his way out of anything. He just has to find the right things to say.

And then John runs a hand down the length of Malcolm's arm, settles the other flat between his shoulder blades, and Malcolm momentarily can't think of _anything_ as every muscle in his body tenses.

"Let me up," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. John’s fingers curl, gently digging into his back, and he shudders, tilting his head to the side and trying to see the man's face. "Wh...what are you doing?"

“Ssh, little Malcolm,” John purrs, grasping Malcolm’s hair and pulling on it, pressing his nose down to the base of Malcolm’s hairline, and Malcolm gasps.

_‘You sound just like your father...you even smell like him.’_

"Let me _up!_ ” he says, much louder, _much_ shakier, and John huffs out a laugh against his skin, the feel of it and his beard sending shivers of disgust down Malcolm's spine.

“I told you. You don't get what you want anymore," he replies, grabbing Malcolm’s arm and briefly lifting himself up to flip Malcolm over, and Malcolm lets out a shriek before he can stop himself, shoving frantically at John's shoulders. 

"Get off of me!"

"Ah, ah, ah." His wrists are pinned above his head, and he clenches his trembling hands, breathing raggedly, his thoughts racing to find something, _anything_ to use. His throat burns, his mouth watering; maybe if he gets sick, it’ll get John _away._ He hadn’t meant to end up this vulnerable. He had just wanted _answers,_ he can’t handle—

“I’m—I’m _filthy!_ ” he gasps finally, verging on hyperventilation as John shifts to hold both of Malcolm's wrists with one hand, freeing the other to stroke his collarbone. “A sinner! I’m a sinner, I’m—r-right, John? I'm a sinner. A traitor. I'm tainted. But not you. You’re pure. You’re better than that, better than me! You wouldn’t!"

John hums appreciatively. “Well, now...I didn’t expect to hear you admit it so soon! Good boy…but... _relax_. I'm not going to hurt you...I just want to _admire_ you."

Malcolm grunts and shakes his head, because that really doesn't sound any _better_ , and John squeezes his fingers in a painfully crushing grip, keeps them there even as Malcolm tries to slip free. 

"Ssh. Your dad taught me all about admiring how _beautiful_ a body can be. He always picked the best. He would have picked you, too, little Malcolm."

"Wh— _what?"_ Malcolm chokes, and John grins at the frightened expression on his face, at how the words shock him enough that he goes entirely still.

"Well, of _course_ he would have. Look at you! Just... _perfect_. Always covered up with your coats and suits...I didn't even notice until I was sewing up your side, and you were so cold I had to cover it right back up. But...let’s see now...”

He slowly trails a line down the center of Malcolm's heaving chest, and then makes a V shape, up to each shoulder.

"He'd cut here...and here...and here…and you'd _scream._ Your screams are really something, you know that? I'm excited to hear them again. He'd peel you open…maybe even let _me_ do it...and we'd take a look inside, see just how you work…see what we could.. _.rearrange_ , all while you watched _."_

"S-stop," Malcolm pleads. His hand shakes, and tears start to blur his vision. _Twenty-three victims. No_. Twenty-four. Maybe _more_. They'd been cut and peeled and _rearranged_ until they _died—_ " _Stop."_

"But that wasn't even the most interesting part! He'd find something to teach me, every time. How much someone can bleed before they die. How much pain they can take, how many bones you can break, how many parts you can _remove_ before their heart just...gives out. Each body is so different, with what it can handle. Really fascinating stuff. Got easier to see each time. And _you…_ "

He touches Malcolm's ribs, right where he'd cracked them against the turnstile, and Malcolm flinches violently, his gasps becoming louder. 

“Oh, little Malcolm, you look _terrified!"_ John chuckles, and then he leans down close enough that abruptly Malcolm stops breathing at _all_ , just stares up at him with wide, panicked eyes.

"You've got a _high_ tolerance for pain, don't you? Went right back to work after our talk in the tunnel…ran barefoot in the snow with a stab wound. It's impressive...you don't look like you could handle much. But...like I said. Everyone has a breaking point. And I'll find yours. Don't you worry."

Malcolm can't move. His chest aches, but he _can't_ take a breath, his entire body frozen in a heartstopping kind of fear he's only felt in his night terrors and maybe not even _then_ , something so deep and primal that it blocks every other sense until he's just... _there_ , trapped inside his head, unable to do a thing.

John looks him over, reveling in this sudden control, and then thumbs away one of the tears running down Malcolm's face.

"What are these? Did I break you already? That's a real shame." He cups Malcolm's cheek, and Malcolm doesn't even flinch. He looks like he's shut down entirely, and it's _beautiful._

"Your eyes are so...intense. _Piercing._ The window to the soul, your father would say. And wouldn't you know, all I see in your soul is _pain_. You're afraid, and that's good. You really, _really_ should be." 

He smiles, runs his hands over Malcolm’s chest a last time as Malcolm shudders and twitches, and then finally, _finally_ stands up. 

Malcolm's reaction is almost instant. He desperately gasps in air, scrambles away on all fours, and then grabs for one of the blankets still strewn about on the couch before diving behind it, out of John’s line of sight. He hits the floor and then presses himself up against the wall, wiping his eyes and clutching his knees to his chest as he pants.

_'He'd cut here...and here...and here...peel you open…'_

He buries his face against his arm as more tears leak down it.

This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t what he thought would happen when he followed John out to the shed. And yet, John had been ahead of them, of _him,_ at all times. He _should_ have expected it. It’s his fault. This is all _his fault._ He’d been too confident, too stupid, _so goddamn stupid..._

“First things first,” John says, tossing Malcolm’s clothes over the back of the couch. “I don't like being distracted from my work." 

Malcolm doesn’t hesitate, snatching them down and holding onto them so tightly it _hurts._

Quantico hadn’t trained him for this. Therapy hadn’t _prepared_ him for this. He feels weak, dizzy, with a terrible weight in his chest. He holds his hand to it, feels his heart thudding under his palm and knows _John_ had felt the same—

A quiet sob escapes his throat, and he covers his mouth, trying his hardest to compose himself. _Stop crying. Stop. Stop!_

"You sound so _sad,"_ John murmurs, still thankfully staying back, and Malcolm takes a deep breath, bites down on a finger until the pain distracts him enough from the thought of John and his own father _dissecting_ him that he can prevent any more tears from falling.

There's a thin line of light on the back of his hand as he finally removes it, and it captures his attention as he looks to the windows. The curtains are all closed, likely to keep him as disoriented as possible, but the sun is up. He'd been out for hours this time, maybe a _day..._ longer? How long…? _How long?_

“My shoes,” he murmurs, too meekly, as he hurriedly dresses himself. “My coat.”

"Oh, but you won't need those. You’re not going outside again, are you?”

Malcolm takes a breath, sniffling as he buttons the last of his shirt up, and then stands. He pushes his hair out of his face, glaring at John as he downs another glass of liquor.

"Don't look at me like that, _boy._ "

Malcolm clenches his teeth. He feels a little stronger now, safer, like maybe his clothes are armor rather than thin, tearable fabrics, but he needs a balance. He doesn't want to seem weak, but he doesn't want to bring on his own pain, either. John wants control; Malcolm has to let him have _some,_ not _all._ So after another moment of tense eye-contact he lowers his gaze, just enough. 

"Good. Now, come. I want to know what you saw."

Malcolm kicks his tie under the couch, because it's just _another_ way for John to hurt him, and then cautiously rounds it. 

" _Sit_ ," John says, taking a step towards him, and Malcolm squares his shoulders, holds his ground instead of obeying. Some control, not _all_ ; he can't submit to _every_ order, not so easily, for fear of it leading to something worse. He's already been... _admired_ , though...so maybe that would be the end of that. It has to be. It _has_ to. He can't...he _can't_ _handle_ anymore. 

John looks him over, almost seems _impressed,_ but the uncontrollable tremor in his hand gives away his fear and uncertainty. John scoffs, then smacks him hard across his wounded cheek, and Malcolm's glad the couch is there to break his fall backwards.

"I've had it with the attitude," he says, looming over Malcolm, who holds up his hands and shrinks back.

"Wait! I don’t—I don’t know! It's...it's blurry, I told you, they're _fragments,_ I—"

John grabs his ankle, lifts his foot up, and strikes something hard against the bottom of it. Malcolm gasps at just how _badly_ it stings, yanking his leg back, and watches in confusion as John goes for his other foot, holding a branch the width of his thumb. 

"Stop it!" Malcolm says, shoving at John's hands, and John whips it across the backs of his fingers, forces him to pull away.

"Your father was always too lenient with you," he says, and strikes his foot again. "Stay still! I told you you'd be punished. You're a _liar._ You're a _sinner_. You _betrayed_ him. You—" 

"I took him away from you," Malcolm realizes, and is rewarded for it with another stinging strike. "Aah! I—you were never just his disposal man, you were his _friend_ —" He grips at the couch with both hands, trying to focus enough to speak when all John does is continue. "You blame me! I-I understand! But I was _ten,_ John! You— _aah_ —you both brought me here to _kill_ someone! And I—" 

' _You were doin' so well, kid. Why'd you run?'_

_'I'll tell! I'll tell them all! He can't make me—'_

Hands around his neck, cutting off his air, pinning him down to the couch. Too small to fight, too weak—

_'That's your father out there, looking for you—and you're gonna respect him. I'll make you.'_

Malcolm gasps, staring up at John. He must once again give away his fear, because John relents for just a moment, grinning.

“What’s _wrong,_ little Malcolm?”

Malcolm’s heart pounds in his throat. He tastes blood, and realizes he’s biting his tongue. Just barely audible, he manages, “What did you do to me?” 

John snickers, grabbing for Malcolm's other foot, and Malcolm is so stunned that he lets it happen.

"You're _weak_ ," he says, striking the bottom. "You always have been. Your dad tried to toughen you up, and you ran away crying."

There's tears in Malcolm's eyes again, and they're hardly from the pain. "You—he was out...I came back—"

“Please. If you ask me, I was _easy_ on you. If you were _my_ kid—"

"You would have chained me in my closet?" Malcolm grits out, and John freezes. His face is suddenly, briefly taken by an emotion Malcolm hasn't seen him exhibit before: _fear_. 

"That's what your grandfather did, isn't it?"

John hardly lets him finish before whipping the switch across Malcolm's face. He only just closes his eyes in time, and feels it cut into his eyebrow.

"You think you know me?" John shouts, grabbing Malcolm's throat, pinning him down the same as he did twenty years ago. Malcolm tries to push up, stronger than he used to be, but rage fuels John on. He straddles Malcolm, forces him to stay there, and drives a knee into the wound on his side when he tries to buck him off.

"You think you're just gonna profile me like the rest of them? Huh? I'm not like the rest of them, not even your father. They're caught, or they're _dead._ My mission goes on. It will _always_ go on, until the Lord brings me home."

"Joh—" Malcolm coughs, straining, nails clawing at the hands around him as his vision starts to darken at the edges. "Ple—" 

_'Sto—stop! I can't—breathe! Stop—ple—'_

_'You want forgiveness? Tell me you won't disrespect us again. Especially him.'_

Cold, _cold,_ can't breathe—a hand on the back of his neck, pushing him forward and into something colder than the snow outside—choking, dark, _he can’t breathe_ —

_'Dad—help—'_

_'Dad's not here. Just you and me. Don't make me make it just me.'_

"And _you,_ " John seethes, "you turned him in _anyways._ Even after we had such a _long_ chat about why you wouldn't." 

Malcolm's hands fall away, his eyes fluttering, and John lets go; he stays sitting with his weight leaned on Malcolm's chest, though, so Malcolm still has to struggle as he coughs and gasps. 

Slumped on the bathroom floor, soaking wet, throwing up water _endlessly_ —

"We're not done," John says, shaking him into opening his eyes again. "Oh, no. Not even close. Get up. Get up!" 

Malcolm doesn't have a choice, because John takes a handful of his hair and starts to walk, and he sputters, "You—tried to— _drown me_ — _"_ as he fumbles and half-crawls down the hall. 

"No. I tried to _save_ you. Tried to put you in your place, to wash away your sins. Shame it didn't work, but...well. Now we’re here to finish the job.”

He opens what Malcolm had originally thought was a small closet, and instead reveals steps leading down. Malcolm panics, grabs onto the door in an attempt not to be dragged wherever it leads, and so John kicks the back of his knees and pushes him down them.

There's mercifully very few, and Malcolm lands relatively unharmed at the bottom, just managing to stop his head from cracking against a stone floor. John's hand is in his hair again, pulling him forward, and then he drops him. 

" _John,"_ Malcolm wheezes, trying to flip onto his back, and then something cold clicks around his wrist. He startles, reaching out, and a metal cuff fastens around that wrist, too. 

John stands up, breathing hard. Malcolm brings himself to his knees, and can't move any higher. He looks down at the shackles, which are bolted to the floor under him, and then up at John.

"What...what is this?" 

"Atonement," John says. "You've always been spoiled. You don't know how good you had it. And now, you're _cocky_ , too. Arrogant. You think you know it all, huh? I don't like that. I _hate_ it. So I'm gonna do what I always do to the filth I come across. I'm gonna give you some time to reflect."

Malcolm trembles, already feeling the chill from being underground. "Y-you can't leave me here. I'll freeze."

"I'll give you a blanket. I don't want you dead. You were delivered to me, and it took a while to figure out why, but I know. I know now. You need to be taught. You need to be _broken_. It's what your father never wanted to do. Almost turned on me for barely touching you. He was an artist—but he was _soft_ when it came to you. But me? Oh, he taught me everything he knew, but I have my own ways, too. And I'm an _expert_ in them."

He goes up the stairs, and Malcolm pulls desperately, uselessly, at the restraints. He looks around the empty cellar, and there's nothing. Cracked floor and old cement walls, two dull bulbs lit up on the side. 

Nothing. _Nothing._

"Please," he says when John returns, throwing him the comforter, and he doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds. "Please don't—I—I didn't mean—"

_'I didn't mean to—Dad, I didn't—'_

_'But you did. You did, my boy, and I couldn't be happier.'_

He leans over, cradling his head, and moans pitifully. "I need to know. I can't remember. I just can't! Oh, God, please, just _tell_ me. _Please._ "

"You don't even believe in God. Don't you _dare_ say His name."

_'Let me ask you something, first...do you believe in God?'_

_'I, uh...I dunno. Maybe?'_

_'There's evil people out there, little Malcolm. Sinners. And it's my job to punish them. Your dad's, too. And now, it's gonna be yours.'_

Malcolm strains to breathe, makes himself even smaller. His job...his job...to punish...no, he didn't want to—Dad, please, _I don't want to—_

"Filthy little rat," John says. "This is your chance to put yourself right with what you've done. Start praying for forgiveness. Start _begging_ for it."

Malcolm looks up, desperately, hair matted with sweat and blood hanging into his eyes. "What did I do?" 

"You turned your own father in. Took him away when I wanted to learn _more._ You're a pathetic little _child,_ even more than you were then, and a damn _traitor._ ”

He whimpers softly. The metal rattles from the tremors in his hand. "Did I kill her?" 

"It's like you don't even care!" John shouts, kicking him in his wounded side, and Malcolm shrieks, rips one of his nails halfway down the middle as he claws at the floor. 

“You’ll care soon. I _promise_ you that. There’s _no one coming_ _for you._ It can take years for all I care. But you're _mine_ now. You hear me? _Mine._ I'll make you pay for every sin, and then I'll turn you into what you should have been all along." 

He turns to leave, and then stops at the stairs. "And... _no_."

Malcolm raises his head, blood and saliva dripping down off his chin as he pants with his mouth hung open. "W-what?" 

"That filth in the woods is the one you remembered, right? Nah,” he grins over his shoulder. "She's not the one you killed."

Malcolm thinks his heart stops. His vision flickers, and he sees Martin's hands around his own again, and John—John was beside them, watching— _smiling_ —

_She's not the one you killed._

"What does that mean?" Malcolm tries, but John is already gone. He yanks on the shackles, screaming until his voice is hoarse.

"What does that mean? No! Please! Come back! Please! John! _John!_ _What does that mean?"_

He remains alone, and his only response is his own shouts, and then his broken sobs, echoing off the walls. 


	10. But Not Completely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \\(^w^)/

She'd told him to slow down. 

_'Don't worry, I've got this,'_ he'd said, and she almost hadn't.

Almost.

Vaguely, she hears her own breathing. She feels the seatbelt's pressure holding her to her seat.

Colette opens her eyes, and nothing is where it should be. It takes her a second to realize she's upside down.

"Bright," she groans, bringing her hand up to the spot at her hairline that throbs. Sore, but she's alive. 

Bright doesn't respond, and she blinks hard, tries to pinpoint him in the darkness. 

He's hanging beside her, absolutely quiet, even as she reaches out and grabs his arm. As arrogant and selfish and _stupid_ as he is, she doesn't want him dead, and the stillness of him unnerves her. 

"Bright! Hey. Hey!" 

Bright lets out a groan, and then opens his eyes.

" _Whoa,_ " he says, blinking hard, taking a moment as he looks down to the roof. He feels around, clicks his seatbelt, and then lands in a heap at the bottom. "Oh, _hell_. Colette?" 

"Up here, genius." 

Bright looks up at her and smiles, like nothing is out of the ordinary. "There you are. Are you okay? Anything broken?"

"I don't think so," she says. "But I'm going to _kill_ you."

"Think I'm bleeding," Bright grunts, touching his head, and his fingers are red when he looks at them. " _Definitely_ bleeding."

And then he laughs, like maybe he's having _fun_ , and she's never been more scared of him. 

"Hang tight," he says, and then starts easing himself out of the mangled frame. "Ow—ow, _ow_ —"

" _Bright—_ "

"I'm coming! Don't worry!"

"That's what you said before you crashed us!"

"I didn't expect him to shoot at us," he says, rounding the car, and then, quieter, "My profile was...a bit off."

"So, _wrong._ I thought you were never wrong!" 

"It's rare, yes. _Fascinating_." He yanks on the door, apparently realizes it's probably not going to open, and then instead reaches through the smashed-out window. He wraps his arms around her, and she hates that even after everything his touch makes her stomach tight. 

One night. It'd been one night, and they'd both been drunk after celebrating a big case solved, and it'd been _nothing_. Bright had made that _perfectly_ clear. 

_'I can't do more,'_ he'd said, doing up his tie the next morning as she lay in his bed. _'I'm sorry_.'

_'More?'_

A useless gesture with his hand. _'Anything...serious. We never should have...I'm...there are things you don't know, and I—'_

_'Used me. You used me, Bright. Good to know. The damn second I think you might be different, I find out you're just like every other man out there.'_

And he'd looked _absolutely_ offended at that, gone into what she could only describe as a defensive mode, and profiled her. She'd told him not to do that. She'd _told_ him. And he'd destroyed her in forty seconds flat, brought her to tears, and then dared to say how _sorry_ he was, how he couldn't stop it, how it had just come out that it was, in his opinion, _her_ that had used _him_ after a cheating, neglectful father led to an 'emotionally unsatisfying childhood' and an 'inclination to desire' men she otherwise couldn't stand.

He was right about her past, of course. He was never— _rarely_ —wrong. She wouldn't have slept with _him_ otherwise, the bastard. But she'd still slapped him across the face, and demanded a partner transfer as soon as she'd gotten to work.

It was bad luck that it took two weeks to go through, and it'd only been twelve days. 

"Hit your seatbelt, I've got you," Bright says.

She sighs, wincing as she stretches her arm down. "I can't. I—damn it. I think it's jammed." 

A gunshot rings out, too close, bouncing off the frame, and Bright ducks down.

"That's not great!" he says, holding his head again and then grabbing for his gun. She can see his hand is wet with blood, and she's going to be bruised to hell for sure, but there's no pain she has that would cause that. It's his own, but he hasn't made a sound to betray it. He's running on adrenaline—she's not sure he works any other way.

"Bright," she says, and he's still got that wild look in his eyes as he gestures up at her.

"I'm gonna—"

"Don't you dare—"

"You're safer here! Back-up's, like, two minutes behind."

She's starting to get dizzy from the blood rushing to her head, probably a concussion, too, _and_ she's stuck. He can't be serious.

"Don't you _dare leave me!_ " she yells, but like everyone else he's already gone.

There's a few more shots minutes later, and then silence. She finds her own gun has fallen to the bottom, out of reach. She has no way to defend herself.

Panic starts to really set in as the minutes pass, certainly more than two, then more than five. She tries her seatbelt again, yanking on it, and then digs in her jacket pocket for her switchblade.

"Oh, hell," she mutters, taking a deep breath, and then starts to slice at the belt. It's terrifying in such an awkward position, upside down and in the _dark_ , the blade _much_ too close to her skin as she tries not to stab herself _._

"Gonna fuckin' _kill_ him...leavin' me here, I _swear—"_

The belt severs, and she yelps, just barely managing to avoid falling on the blade. She takes a second to recover, bracing herself and panting, and then grabs her gun, crawls forward to get on the radio and ask where back-up is.

And then she finds out Bright didn't _call_ for back-up. He'd been so confident he wouldn't need it he hadn't told _anyone_ they was pursuing the suspect, and even out there hadn't gotten on his phone. Just _forgot_ about her. Or died. Neither was good.

"I need a bus, gunshots fired by suspect, possible agent down," she says, and then opens the glove compartment to grab a flashlight before carefully sliding out of the window. The grass is wet from rain, slippery under her feet, and it takes a second for her to steady herself.

"Bright?" 

Nothing. Typical. Even if the bastard isn't dead, he didn't bother answering half the time. 

She goes forward, grimacing as she positions her gun. Her elbow hurts, sprained if not worse, and oh, if _this_ is how she dies, shot in the dark because of that _shithead_ , she's going to haunt his ass _forever._

The bushes near her rustle, and she swings her gun around and aims it—straight into Bright's stupid, pretty boy face.

"Bright! You idiot," she hisses. "What happened? Where's Lee?"

He pulls their suspect out, wrists cuffed behind him, and pushes him to sit down. 

"We talked. 's all good. Where's back-up?" 

"You never _called_ for back-up, you dumbass!"

"Oh," Bright says, and then lurches forward.

She keeps her gun aimed at Lee with her good arm, and shines the flashlight over Bright with the other. "Are you shot?"

He smiles weakly at her. There's blood down the side of his head, over his ear, and his words slur slightly as he asks, "You care?"

"I don't _completely_ want you dead," she says, grimacing as she reaches up to try and figure out where he's bleeding from. "Answer me."

He purses his lips, thoughtfully. "I dunno. No? Jus' got a headache. How're you?"

"Bright," she breathes, and he looks down at her bloodied hand.

"Is 'at...mine?" he says, and then nods. "Tha's okay. Tha's, um...y' know what, I'm—" 

He turns, like he plans on doing something, and then drops like a rock.

"Shit! _Stay there,_ " she tells Lee, kneeling beside Bright, rolling him onto his back and undoing his tie to press it against the wound. "Hey, Bright? You with me? Come on. It's not that bad. It's—oh, it's kinda bad. But it's okay. Back-ups _actually_ on the way now." 

"My head hurts," he mumbles, and she still doesn't know how he can sound so much like a helpless child, how he can _look_ like one. 

"I know. It's from the crash." 

"What crash?" Bright asks, looking around, and she presses down a little harder, wincing at his gasp of pain.

"You are _not_ dying on me. I have a perfect record! Focus! We were in a crash. I can hear sirens, just stay awake."

"Sirens," he echoes, eyes fluttering. "Don't...I'm sorry. I…" 

"Keep talking. Sorry for what?" 

"Dad…" 

She huffs. She should have guessed it wouldn't be anything to do with _her._ But she knows she needs to keep him awake, so she asks, "What about him, huh? Talk to me. Keep talking."

"I'm...shoulda...Dad, I jus'..." Bright's head lolls to the side, and blue and white lights illuminate them from the road above.

"Down here!" she shouts, and then feels Lee shove her and take off in a panic that overcame whatever _talk_ the two of them had had. She aims her gun, and then cries out and drops it as fire shoots through her injured arm. "God—fuck!"

She grits her teeth, and then scoots up closer to Bright, cupping his cheek.

"Wake up, idiot!" 

Bright groans, blinking hard, and looks up at her with those big blue eyes, dazed but still conscious. Still alive.

"Hey," she says, smiling weakly. "That's good. Come on. Help's coming. Um...okay, uh—what's the date, huh?" 

"Uh…" 

"No, I don't know either. Um—your name. What's your name? Come on. Just focus. Keep your eyes open."

She waves at the agents sliding down the steep hill. "Bright's down! Lee's on the run, through there, he's handcuffed, can't have gotten far!" 

Bright mumbles something, and she absentmindedly lays her hand on his neck, fingers just under his ear. 

"What? What'd you say? Hey. Talk to me. What's your name?"

"Malcolm Whitly," he says, hardly audible, but she hears it. She hears _that._

"What?" she manages, but then medics are pulling her away from him, hauling him onto a stretcher to get him back up to the road.

His name is _Bright_ , isn't it? He'd been delusional, he’d been...calling for his _dad—_

There's no way. Not a chance.

She shakes herself, rolling her eyes as two others come out of the bushes, dragging the idiot of a criminal between them, and then starts walking.

**x**

Bright is back at work the moment he's cleared, still bandaged around the head but alive.

Which is good, because Colette has been waiting patiently for a while now to _fucking kill him herself._

She corners him in the break room, slams the door and backs him up against the counter and nearly makes him drop the coffee pot on the floor.

"Whoa, uh— _wait_ —" Bright stutters, flushing and holding his hands up, like maybe he thinks she's trying to do something very different, and she scowls.

"You—you—you're a _Whitly."_

She hadn't been entirely sure until then, or at least, she'd _hoped._ But the way Bright's breath catches and his eyes widen...there's no mistaking his sudden fear.

"What?" he asks, sounding like he just manages to choke the word out, and she shoves him. 

"You told me yourself, after the crash _you caused!_ You could have killed us both! I did some digging around, and _Jesus_ —I can't fucking believe they partnered me with The Surgeon's _son!"_

Bright flinches, and then scowls.

" _No,"_ he seethes. He intimidates with words, not physicality, but the way he takes a step forward still has her mirroring it backwards.

"I haven't seen him in ten years. I’m not—my name is _Bright._ " 

"You're _crazy,_ " she says, shaking her head. "I can't believe I didn't see it. This whole time, everything you've done—how many people you could've gotten killed! And—I _fucked_ you, I—I was at your place, you—" 

"I what?" Bright interrupts. "I...I could have killed you?”

For a moment, they just... _look_ at each other. And then Bright's eyes water, and he looks away. She straightens up, and he seems to try to make himself smaller, backing up against the wall.

"I don't know," she says finally, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "But I know you shouldn't be here. You put everyone around you in danger. You put _me_ in danger. And now it all makes sense. Now I know _why._ You learned from the best."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His whole body shudders, just once, and he grips the counter.

"Nothing to say?" 

"I'm the best they have," he says. "I solve the case. I get the bad guy."

"You _are_ a bad guy."

He flinches again, and his nose scrunches up. His eyes dart around behind her, like he’s afraid someone might come in and hear them, but she’s going to make sure they _all_ know.

“I’m not. I’m _not him_ , I—"

"You almost killed me! Do you see this cast? What if I can't shoot anymore?"

"The accident wasn't _intentional!_ " he protests. "I'd never hurt you, Colette!" 

"You did. More than once."

He groans, braces himself with his other hand, too. "I can't—a relationship would _never_ have wor—"

She laughs, coldly. He stops, and looks at her in confusion. 

"I didn't want a relationship. I was drunk. I _hate_ you. _Completely_."

His eyes go over her face, just once, but he stays quiet.

"I could never love a _Whitly_. I don't think anyone could.”

That hurts him, more than he tries to show as he fidgets and stretches his arms out. But she _wants_ him to hurt. She wants him to _hurt._

"I don't think anyone ever _will._ " 

He shuts down. She sees it happen, the cold, emotionless look his eyes suddenly get as his face goes slack. 

And then he smiles. It's nothing short of terrifying. 

"Well," he says, "I suppose that's one thing we can relate on. Besides the damage from our fathers, that is."

She sneers, raises her hand to slap him again, and he blocks it, grabs her wrist. 

And then looks down, like he's surprised at himself, and quickly releases her. She takes another step back, and he stares down at his violently trembling hand like he’s never seen it before, then clenches it and shoves it into his pocket.

"Don't ever touch me again," she says. "Don't even _look_ at me.” 

"It won't be as hard as you're making it sound, I can assure you," he replies, his tone never fluctuating. "Are we done?" 

"Oh, I'll make sure you are," she says, and then, softer, "I will _ruin_ you."

"Perfect!" he says, almost cheerfully. "So will I. Everyone's on the same page." 

She sneers at him, and then turns on her heel, goes almost directly to IA. She explains her concerns, in _detail_ , and then later encourages Bright's last partners to do the same. By the time she hears back from them, Bright's already gone. Sabotaged himself for the last time by punching a sheriff, she hears; she hadn't known his last words to her were so serious until now.

She's happy, and she's not. Maybe she never was.

But until he’s their next suspect, which she doesn’t doubt will be soon, she never wants to hear his goddamn name again, not _either_ of them.

**x**

_He’s not a killer._

Ainsley is Bright’s family, blinded by it, same as their mother. Gil isn’t biological, but cares for him just as much. Dani and JT, his _friends._ All biased.

Colette likes to believe she isn't. The Surgeon had affected her childhood almost as much as her own father had. She remembers her mother’s paranoia of losing her, never allowing her to be out late or go anywhere alone for fear of her being next. The relief on her face when he'd been caught, riveling that of when her father had finally left them years later. 

It's not Bright's _fault_ he was born to a rotten man, not anymore than it's hers. But there was no mistaking his psychotic tendencies, or that the security footage from the tunnel held _something._

Two minutes, twenty-eight seconds they'd been down there, talking.

The more tired she gets, the harder it is to concentrate on that, instead of the half-hour it took for him to drag himself out after Watkins had left.

There's something more to this all. She knows it. Something that pulled Bright to keep testing everyone until it blew up in his face. 

Maybe it's not the worst case scenario. Maybe it _is._

_You can’t do that. You can't name him like that. It would put him in danger._

Raising her hand up to silence the chatter, Colette takes a breath, and then speaks.

“Twenty-four hours ago, the FBI and NYPD put a name to the Junkyard Killer just as he went on the run. John Allen Watkins, former custodian at St. Edwards Hospital. On your screen is an old security ID photo, twenty years old but all we have. At the same time, a former federal agent and consultant with the NYPD, Malcolm Bright, went missing. We believe—"

Her eyes catch Powell’s, in the back of the crowd. They’re exhausted, red-rimmed, pleading. They remind her of Bright’s. Always so tired, bruised, _desperate_. 

_‘I what? I...I could have killed you?’_

She looks away.

“We have reason to believe he was abducted by Watkins," she continues finally. Powell slides down the wall, out of her sight. “Anyone who's seen this car or either of these men is urged to call the number on the bottom of your screen, or the police directly. Watkins is to be considered armed and dangerous. We believe he would most likely be seen at some sort of campground, a preserve, a national park. Thank you. I won't be taking any questions."

Cameras flash, reporters calling out for her, and she ignores them. Officers hold them back as she enters the precinct, stopping in front of Gil Arroyo.

"What changed?" he asks, arms crossed. “You were dead-set on taking that boy down with Watkins.”

She scoffs. "Nothing. Don’t think I'll hesitate to update them if more evidence comes up. But for now, I was right. The public doesn't need the panic of two murderers out there. Hope he doesn’t make me regret it.”

“He won’t,” Powell says from behind her, and Arroyo’s attention is immediately on her. 

“I thought I told you to go _home_ ,” he says, and Colette glances over her shoulder.

“I can’t,” Powell murmurs, brushing his hand off her arm. “You know I can’t. Not yet. It’s just a headache.”

He sighs. “Fine. Go in with JT. He’s still looking over everything you pulled from the hospital, waiting for calls. I’ll order some food.”

She shrugs, and then meets Colette's eyes. She looks exactly like she hasn’t slept for two days straight, like she’s been living off of coffee and fading hope and this, what she's just been given, is the only thing she has to hold onto.

"Thank you," she says, quietly. "For not…"

"If I get one sign otherwise…" 

"I know. Let's just...get him back, and you can ask him yourself."

Colette takes a deep breath, waving her hand. "Fine,” she replies, and frowns as the officers at the door move aside to let someone in. “Oh, uh-uh, you’re not—”

“Relax,” Ainsley says, forcing a smile and brushing snow off her coat. “I’m not here for my job. Although, can I thank you for properly doing yours?”

“Watch it,” Colette warns, narrowing her eyes, and Ainsley holds her hands up. 

“Sorry. But I remembered something,” she says, and Powell and Arroyo get closer. 

“What about?”

“Malcolm. Well, my dad. When we were inside the hospital filming, Malcolm was there to ask about a knife he’d found. And my dad told him he’d got it for him in New Jersey.”

“New Jersey,” Powell breathes out, “that’s…”

Colette braces herself on the nearest table, sighing. There’s only so much longer they can all go on caffeine, before they're going to have to call in even _more_ people, before the likelihood of them finding Bright alive and _innocent_ both get lower. “That’s another state they could be in.” 

“The knife,” Powell murmurs. “The one Edrisa found. That’s still in evidence. Maybe she can look it over again, and…”

“It’s a _knife,_ ” Colette says. “Every gas station and corner store in the country sells them.”

Powell glares at her, sharper than any blade. It almost makes her look away. 

“Or,” Powell snaps, “maybe we get lucky, and it breaks the case.”

Colette smiles, strained. The last thing they need is the truth, right? That’s the last thing anyone ever needed. 

“I just need—” Powell slams her fist against the wall, and then puts the back of it to her mouth, her fingers trembling. 

Colette shifts her weight in the silence. Ainsley glances at her, and then Arroyo. 

“I don’t want to go home,” she says quietly, and Arroyo gestures to his office. 

“Neither does your mother,” he says. “But I need you to. I need you to take her and go home. Okay? Get some rest. We’ll call you the second there’s anything to tell.”

“Like she’ll listen to me.”

“I can get someone to escort you, if it's easier,” Arroyo says, and Ainsley sighs, shaking her head, sliding past them. 

Powell finally moves, clearing her throat. “I’ll tell Edrisa.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Colette finds herself saying, and they look at her oddly. Arroyo, vaguely, seems impressed. “What? I told you. I want to find him. I don’t…”

_‘I don’t completely want you dead.’_

She shakes her head. “I want him alive. Alright? I have questions.”

“Me, too,” Powell says, her gaze sweeping over Colette, and Colette swats her hand dismissively, walks away before anything else can be said. She doesn’t have time for this, doesn’t have the _patience._

It's just _her_ luck that the second she goes to get more coffee, Powell is in there, too. 

"It's brewing," she says, gesturing. 

"I can see that, thanks."

Powell smiles, just a little. "Something changed."

"I'm tired."

"That's all? Because you came here, and I could have sworn you hated him. I thought you were gonna name him. But you didn't. Why?"

Colette grits her teeth, clenches her fist. "Don't profile me. That's not your job."

Powell nods and looks back at the coffee machine, her finger trailing the rim of her mug as the pot fills.

"It doesn't mean I trust him," Colette says. "I _don't._ " 

Another nod. Still smiling weakly. She pours a cup for herself, one to bring to JT, and then holds it out for Colette to take.

"But you don't hate him, either."

It's not a question, so she doesn't respond. She just breathes out, takes the pot, and stays where she is until she's alone again.

Then she sits down at the table, clasps her hands in front of her mouth, and closes her eyes. 

**x**

"We shouldn't," she murmurs, and then kisses him again.

"No," he agrees, muffled against her lips.

She smirks, and then giggles. He looks a little concerned, pulling back.

"I've...never heard you laugh before." 

"Shut up." She grabs his tie, pushes him down on his bed and sits on his waist. "You just tell bad jokes."

He really looks about to protest that, the idiot, and she kisses him before he can. Her fingers dance along his neck, his jaw, under his ear, and he lets out a sound that seals the deal, settles her mind on making this mistake. 

She tugs her shirt off, and Bright looks up at her like she's beautiful, like she's worth something after all. His hand twitches, reaches out, and while he's free to touch anywhere, he chooses to take one of her curls in his hand.

"You're drunk," he says, breathless. "You hate me."

She rolls her eyes. She's too drunk, or maybe not drunk _enough_ , to have a conversation right now. "I don't."

"Oh, you _definitely_ do."

"Fine," she says, "yeah. But not completely." 

"No?"

"No, you idiot. Is that good enough for you?"

He smiles, and she hates what it does to her. 

Hates it, and doesn't hate it at all.

"Yeah," he says, and wraps his arms around her.


	11. Nothing Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry Malcolm oh my god—
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta/error fixer of the last few chapters and fwend, [TheGrandeursOfDespair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGrandeursOfDespair) !!
> 
> TW for mentions of self-harm, and mentions of a (past) suicide attempt.

Something is wrong.

Malcolm notices it first when he starts sweating. The meager body heat inside the comforter he's cocooned around his body is likely the only thing keeping him from freezing, yet he's pouring sweat as if it's summer. His heart goes from calm to racing and back again, and he loses his breath without ever moving. The blanket is over his head, but he hears her chain, her wheezing, calling his name again and again and _again_.

There's someone else now, too. There might be more. He's too scared to look. He just stays there, curled on his side, and keeps his eyes closed.

When his hand tremors stop being temporary, jerking spasms spreading to other muscles, and he heaves so violently that he gets a nosebleed, he can't help but call out for John. He needs water, if nothing else. As long as he's been down here, maybe _forever_ , he's only needed to pull himself to the end of the chain and relieve himself once, and his mouth has become dry enough he has no reason to swallow. 

John doesn't come, and Malcolm can't force his voice any louder. The Girl had grabbed him sometime before, and he'd been horrified to find he couldn't even scream.

_'Malcolm_ …'

"Leave...me alone," he manages, plugging his ears as if he hasn't already tried that, as if she's not inside his head, inescapable. As if he isn’t as trapped with her here as she was in that trunk. "Please, please, please, _please…_ "

_'Malcolm…'_

He sobs, smacking his head against the ground. He's going _mad_. How long has it been? He wants to go home now. He wants to go to bed. His soft, warm, wonderful bed. His head hurts so much...it hurts _so much…_ and his _bird_...who's going to feed her? He loves her. She’s probably scared… _he's_ scared...

He startles out of something vaguely resembling sleep to heave again, and while he's long stopped actually bringing anything up, he coughs hard and long enough that he tastes blood on his tongue. God, his side hurts. His _feet_ hurt. They're covered in blisters by now, but the skin doesn't look to be dying. A relief, even if frostbite is really the least of his worries here, especially with the angry red swelling he's started to notice around his stitches.

He rests his head down on his arm, and something quietly crunches under him. He blinks his eyes open, and he's lying outside, leftover autumn leaves mixed with a bit of snow.

"...What?"

He reaches out, and touches one of the leaves. It feels like a leaf should, cracks under his finger when he applies pressure, and that, he realizes, is probably not good.

That means John had thrown him out into the woods, and he's going to die, or he's _already_ dead. 

He sits up, holding his hands out in front of him. The shackles are gone. The blanket is, too. He’s got enough strength to stand, instead of hardly enough to keep his eyes open. He gets up, slowly, and looks around. 

It's night, and he finds himself transfixed by the moonlight reflecting off a frozen lake in front of him. And the stars…so many stars. He never sees this many stars in the city. 

It's serene, really. He's not scared anymore. He's warm, pleasantly sleepy. 

Something pulls him to move forward, and he walks. 

And then he blinks, and he's standing on the ice. He turns around, doesn't know how he got so far out so quickly, and The Girl grabs his throat, silencing his startled cry.

" _Malcolm_ ," she groans. " _Help me_."

The ice cracks under his feet, and he falls through into water. It's so _cold—_ so dark—

He opens his eyes, looking up to the moonlit surface rippling above him. He reaches out, kicks his legs—

And feels someone grab onto his ankle. Can’t see, but knows it’s _her._

Bubbles explode from his mouth as he screams, and she drags him down, drags him until he sees _nothing,_ until he knows he will die here, _alone,_ until—

Something strikes his foot, and he coughs, gasping for air, and scrambles away, hitting the end of the chain's length. It jerks him back, and he hits the floor and lays there, stunned, until his vision clears. 

"There you are," John says, grinning down at him. "Quite a dream you were having, huh?"

Malcolm opens his mouth, and nothing but a hoarse wheeze comes out. 

"Oh, right. It's been a while, hasn’t it?" He reaches out of Malcolm's line of sight, and then cups the back of his head, and the only reason Malcolm doesn’t struggle is the water bottle that presses to his cracked lips. He desperately gulps several mouthfuls down, and then John yanks it away, _too soon_ , spills some of it down Malcolm's chin, and Malcolm _whimpers_. 

"N- _no_ , I need—"

"Don't be greedy," John says, capping the bottle and setting it aside. He pulls the comforter away, too, and then holds Malcolm's ankle steady against his knee, the switch in his other hand. "Greed is a sin."

He strikes Malcolm’s foot, and the pain gives Malcolm clarity, if only briefly. A dream. Only a dream. And this... _this_ is a _nightmare_.

The shackles rattle, his tremors worsening under the stress and sudden lack of barrier to the cold, and then he desperately whispers, "J-John. _John_."

Another strike. "Speak up."

"My—I need—" He looks at the man, wide-eyed. "My medi—dication. I take—I take—I need—"

"Your medicine, huh? Oh, but you're getting it, right now." 

Malcolm shivers violently, crying out as John continues. "Can't stop—please—I see her—"

John lowers his hand. He really looks at Malcolm, at his blown-out pupils and the sweat pouring down his face, and frowns. "See who, little Malcolm?"

Malcolm's eyes go over his shoulder, and John glances back, as if something might actually be there that _he_ can see. 

"Her," Malcolm whispers, the word coming out strangled. "Please. P-pills. Need—need my pills."

John strikes his foot, as hard as he can, and Malcolm sobs.

"You sound just like those filthy junkies. Is that what you are?"

"No! They—they're f-from my th—my therapist!"

"That doesn't mean a damn thing."

"Can't st-stop shaking," he says, holding out his hands, as if the rest of his body trembling wasn't proof enough. "Heart keeps—my heart is sk-sk— _skipping_ , I—I can't st-top throwing up—"

John digs his nails into Malcolm's ankle, eyes narrowed. "How many?" 

"Wh...what?"

He scowls, and strikes his foot a handful more times. "How many _pills_ do you _take?_ "

"St-stop—" Malcolm pleads, trying to pull away, and John hardly needs to use any strength at all to keep him there, striking again. 

"Answer me!" 

"Five!" he gasps, and John stares at him.

"Hell! You _are_ a little junkie! I knew you were... _damaged_ , but... _five?"_

Malcolm whimpers, and then squeezes his eyes shut, brings his hands up to cover his mouth, trying his hardest to keep the water down as his stomach flips. _Please don't, please don't—_

" _John_ —" 

"Oh, I know. It feels terrible, doesn't it? I've seen it enough times. I always let them dry out a bit before the end. Helps 'em get right with God. Get it on out, little Malcolm. You need this."

Malcolm shakes his head, but the sudden movement and resulting dizziness are what pushes him over the edge, and he wraps his arms around himself as he heaves.

“Aww,” John says, voice practically dripping with mocked sympathy, but, mercifully, he’s paused the abuse. “Poor little thing...that really sounds painful.”

It is. His side feels like it's going to rip open every time he _moves_ let alone _this_ , and the sheer amount of pressure in his head is enough to make him wonder if he's _dying,_ wonder if it would be more of a relief if he did. 

"H-home," he finally rasps, coughing as he at last slumps back. His voice sounds strange in his ears, far away, and he's not sure he's actually speaking. He's not totally sure if John is here or not, either. He's so _confused..._ feels like he has to trudge through mud and fog just to spit out half-formed sentences.

"Please? D-don't…don't fe—el good."

John laughs, pulling lightly on the chain connected to his wrists, maybe to remind Malcolm of them when there’s no possible way he can forget. 

"You're not supposed to feel _good_. This is punishment, after all. It’s only been a few days...give it a few more, and—”

"D… _days?"_ Malcolm repeats, and then at once he's weeping. He doesn't know how he has any tears, and yet several still fall down his cheeks while John looks at him with the same delight he’s taken in the rest of his pain. 

“Oh, no...don’t cry…”

"I'm s-so _tired,_ " Malcolm says, grabbing at his hair. It’s only something to be used against him, he knows, but it spills out anyways, just as uncontrollably as the tears. "I...I ne—need t-to sleep. I c-can't sleep...please…"

"You want me to help you with that?" John asks, almost sweetly, and Malcolm nods. He doesn't care how; he hadn't dreamed with whatever John had injected him with, maybe he could just—

"You _filthy little addict,"_ John spits, immediately back to anger, and then beats at Malcolm's foot until Malcolm's pleas choke off into shrill cries and blood drips down onto John's sleeve. 

"I _should_ kill you," he hisses, reaching for Malcolm's other ankle to start again. "You're just like the rest of them." 

"No," Malcolm gasps, kicking weakly, just once; he doesn't have the energy to do it twice, and it doesn't shake John's hold anyways. "No. J-John. Please. Used to, but...no—no more. N-no more! All g-good."

"Used to, huh? What'd you use?" 

"S-s-sedat-tives."

"What kind?" 

Malcolm shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. It twists and spirals, and he has to close his eyes before he's sick again. Even then there's a sensation of movement behind his lids, dizzy whether he sees or not, and he doesn't know how much longer he can handle it. "A-all of 'em." 

John scowls, then throws his foot down and moves up to grab Malcolm's arm, undoing his sleeve. "What am I going to find under here, little Malcolm?" 

Malcolm smiles weakly, his teeth chattering loud enough for them both to hear. "N-nothing g—ood." 

Scoffing, John pulls his sleeve up. Malcolm remains limp, allows John to press his thumb into the crook of his arm, against the decade and some years old indents that could never be noticeable unless someone knew what to look for. 

"Not bad," John says, a hint of approval in his voice, and Malcolm can at least take pride in that. He hadn't liked the ones he had to inject; they were too messy, and he's always hated needles. Pills were always easier to get, easier to _hide_ , and so he'd quickly switched to those. 

"Just a couple. Not like the others. No, you’re not like them. You can still be salvaged. It won't be easy, but...God didn't put us on this Earth to do easy things. Just right ones." 

"Am—m—men," Malcolm mumbles, and John hits him hard enough that his head snaps to the left and he sees a flash of white.

" _Fuck_. Is 'at not wh-what you're s'ppos'a say? I, uh…oh...I don' feel..." 

"Shut up. What are these?" His finger trails down to Malcolm's wrist, over even older marks. Malcolm's leg jerks, hard enough to jolt the rest of his body, but he doesn't answer, and John swears, grabs the switch to use on his arm, too.

"You spoiled piece of _filth_. You had everything and you did _this?"_

Malcolm still doesn't respond, doesn't give any reaction at all when John strikes his arm, even when a bruise immediately starts to form. 

" _Hey,_ " he snaps, grabbing Malcolm's chin. "Hey!" 

Malcolm stares blankly past him for a few seconds longer, grinding his teeth, and then blinks hard. "I...th—the...I…" He trails off, blinks again, and then finally focuses up at John, looking deeply confused, his face flushed bright red. "...What?"

"You," John enunciates, "are pathetic. Your other arm have those, too? How old are they?"

"I—uh—" He takes a breath, looking around and then down at his arm. " _What?"_

John glances him over. He doesn't look _worried_ , but definitely curious. "What's wrong with you, huh?"

“I...dunno," Malcolm says quietly, and his tongue doesn't feel right in his mouth, his limbs too heavy. What had they been talking about? His arm…his past abuse…something else? There'd been an overwhelming sense of uneasiness that had suddenly washed over him, and then...and then...

John strikes his arm, and he gasps. 

"How _old?"_

He squeezes his eyes shut. His arm is bared. Of course. They're faded, from time and cosmetic surgeries, but they'll never be gone. He should have expected they would come up, especially the too-close way John has been liking to _admire_ him. But oh, he doesn't want to talk about them. That's too deep. That's too far. That still hurts too much.

John hits him again, and then again even harder, and finally he grits out, "F-fifteen years. S—some're older."

And some, elsewhere, are newer. He just isn't stupid enough to put them where people can see anymore.

"Dooming your father to rot in a cage was _hard_ on you, was it?"

Malcolm laughs, or chokes, or something in between. He remembers the _relentless_ bullying at school—kids taunting him, _beating_ him, every day for _years_ , leaving him to sob in the bathroom as he shoved tissues up his nose to stop the bleeding, believing he deserved it. He remembers the worsening night terrors, the fear, the suffocating emptiness within him that just kept making it harder and harder to breathe. Being stalked by cameras, reporters yelling at him for comments as he just tried to walk to the place that no longer felt like home, and the time a car swerved by and launched a drink-cup full of cold soda at his head in the middle of winter.

He remembers wanting relief, any way he could get it. He remembers knowing everyone hated him, people he'd never even met, maybe the whole _world,_ all because of what his father had done. 

He remembers wanting to _die._

But...he also remembers Gil. He remembers Jackie. He remembers staying at their house when it all got too much, and the way Gil would give him the world and a candy if all Malcolm did was ask. The stake-outs he'd begged his way into riding along on. The way Gil had looked at him the first time he'd been beaten badly enough he couldn't hide it, how he'd held Malcolm in his arms and promised him he _didn't_ deserve it, that he would make them pay if Malcolm would only tell him _who._ The sheer terror on his face the night he'd found Malcolm bleeding out on his bathroom floor, the way he'd cradled Malcolm in his arms and whispered soothing words with tears running down his face until the ambulance arrived. Malcolm remembers the warmth, the safety he'd felt in Gil's arms, even as he sobbed apologies for getting blood on his clothes.

_'God, I don't care about the clothes, Malcolm! Please. Stay with me. I love you. Jackie loves you. Your mom and sister love you. I love you. Just stay with me. We need you, Malcolm. I need you. Please, please, just stay with me.'_

Malcolm had never heard that before. His mother was, for most of his youth after the arrest, more interested in alcohol than him or Ainsley, and he'd never bothered Ainsley with his problems. He'd kept it all inside, starved and cut and _hurt_ because he _hated_ himself until it nearly killed him, but Gil...Gil was telling him he was _needed_. That he wasn't a burden, or a curse, or disposable. 

He remembers his last thought before fading away was that he wished _Gil_ was his dad. And as scared as he'd been when he was told he wasn't allowed to leave the hospital, that he'd be transferred to the psych ward and kept until he could be stabilized, Gil had been there to hold his hand and tell him it was okay.

And Gil had been sad, tearful, but never disappointed. Not ever. He'd never looked at Malcolm the way Ainsley and his mother did, with pity and sorrow. He'd never been angry, like Malcolm had feared. He'd made sure Malcolm knew how strong he was at every visit, how he was going to get through this. And how happy he'd been to have him back after nearly three months, willing to help him anyway he could, just like always, to drive him to therapy and talk to him for hours at any time of the night just to make sure he didn't hurt himself again. 

Gil saved his life, over and over again. And now Malcolm is going to die here, and never even get to say goodbye. 

He starts to sob again, and John carelessly continues. It doesn't hurt as bad as his feet had, not at first, but as John keeps at it, does his other arm, too, and then lashes it against his back, he's still just as desperately pleading for it all to end.

"Quit sniveling," John says, and finally tosses the switch down. "You deserve more. You deserve for me to make you rip all those back open. Maybe I will. There's always time. But I think you still need a few more days to...detox. Clear your head.”

Malcolm brings one of his arms up enough to look at it, and nearly the entirety of it is black and blue, stripes of dotted red where it had hit hard hard enough to draw blood. John grabs it tightly, pressing his fingers down, and Malcolm whimpers.

"This one?" John says, putting his index finger over the scar on his wrist that had almost left him dead, and Malcolm looks away, suddenly ashamed. He doesn't know for sure what John is asking, but thinks he gets the idea. 

"Yes," he replies, and grimaces when John applies pressure. It still hurts, deep in his muscle, even when it isn't bruised.

"You just don't know how good you had it, do you?" John shakes his head, scoffs, and glares at him.

Malcolm's gaze flickers over John's face, trying to get some sort of reading, but his vision is still swimming, faltering. John almost looks more like a hallucination than The Girl at this point. He blinks hard, wiping at his eyes, and then says, "Sorry."

John frowns. " _Sorry?"_

"Y-yes. Yes. For—f-f-f—for what he d-did, for—"

John's hand shoots out, grabbing Malcolm's throat, and Malcolm cuts off into a strangled wheeze.

"You're on thin ice," John says. "I told you not to do that bullshit."

"Sorry—" he chokes, and as much as he wants to reach up and try to free himself, he keeps his hands down, trying to show his compliance. "Won't—do— _ach_ —it ag-gain!"

John's lip curls up in disgust, and then he releases him with a shove, and Malcolm braces himself on the floor as he coughs.

"You're not saying _sorry_ to the right person. That's for your father. That's for Him," he says, looking upwards. "Get up. Get on your knees."

Slowly, Malcolm obeys. He leans slightly to his uninjured side with a wince, trying to keep the skin around his wound straight, and then looks at John.

John grabs Malcolm's hands, slaps his palms together, and holds them up. 

"This is how," he says, releasing him, and Malcolm's arms shake as he struggles to keep them there. "You tell Him you're sorry enough, and _maybe_ you'll be forgiven." 

Malcolm glances up at the ceiling, and then back at John. He opens his mouth, planning to do as expected, and then John backhands him.

"Not for me! You're still looking at me!" 

Malcolm covers his mouth, and quickly nods. "Okay! Okay, I'll—"

John hits him again, _hard,_ closed fist connecting with his cheekbone, and the floor shifts under him. He crumples, and reaches up to try and shield his face. "I-I'm s-sorry—please, d-don't, it _hurts_ —"

" _Good,"_ John says. He slams his palm down over Malcolm's ear, and then yanks on a handful of hair more than hard enough to make Malcolm yelp.

"You're a stupid, _spoiled_ little boy. I admire Martin like no one else, but he didn't do right with you there. Look at you. You don't even know how to pray. You're pathetic. You're weak. You're _nothing._ But that's why I'm here. You don't need _pills_ , little Malcolm. It's unnatural. You got a good head full of what your dad taught you. Runs in your blood. All you _really_ need is some guidance. And I've got all that planned."

He lets go, and Malcolm sucks in a breath, wincing as he looks up. "Wh...what're y-you gonna do?"

"Oh, it's not what _I'm_ going to do," John says, grinning, and Malcolm trembles, his voice going even softer. 

"Wh...what d-does that me—"

John snatches the switch up again, a movement so quick and clearly threatening that Malcolm's mouth closes with an audible _click._ And then, _then_ , to John’s absolute amazement, he pulls his knees up under him and leans over again in an unmistakable display of _submission_ instead of stubborn defiance. He doesn't beg, doesn't say _anything,_ but John can hear every breath is quivering, shallow, and for just a few days work, it's still something to be proud of.

"That’s _good,_ " he says, and sounds far more pleased than he means to let on. "You _should_ respect me. After all, I'm doing this for you."

"Okay," Malcolm says, quiet. "F-for me. Yes. Th—thank-k you, John." 

"Listen to you," John coos, petting Malcolm's hair, and Malcolm flinches hard but doesn't move. "Are those _manners?_ Good boy. I'm impressed." 

"Y-you risked s-so—so much," Malcolm goes on, "to bring me h-here...to learn...I c-c-c...c…I c-can learn, J-John. J-just—help me rem-m-member." 

John grips onto Malcolm's hair just a little tighter. "Are you mocking me?" 

"No!" Malcolm exclaims, shaking his head as much as he can. "No. I-I wouldn't. I j-just...wann-na underst-stand. T-talk to me. Please." 

"Mmm. Trying to build up that trust, are we?" He pulls Malcolm's head up a bit, and notices the way Malcolm's gaze sticks for just a moment longer at his waist, right where his hunting knife is sheathed.

"Oh, little Malcolm," he says, and relishes the fear that flickers across his captive's face. "You're not going to do something stupid like try to grab that, are you?" 

Malcolm's fingers curl against his palm, and he tightly shuts his eyes. The thought had crossed his mind so briefly, so fleetingly, that he doesn’t understand how John had even detected it. _God_ , he doesn’t want more pain. It'd been a bad idea. He wouldn't have done it. Please. " _No_." 

John pulls the knife out, slow and deliberate, and Malcolm starts to pant, shaking his head again. His fault, _his fault_ , all of this _his own fault—_

“I really hope not,” John says, and then pokes the tip into the back of Malcolm’s hand, just hard enough to startle him. “Because then I'd have to use it to rip those stitches out, one by one, and you don't want that, do you?"

Malcolm lowers himself just a little more and protectively covers his side with his other hand. "D-d-don't!" he manages, panic making him nearly incomprehensible. "P- _please_. I wa—no, I w-wasn't. I w-want...you to t—t-t—to t- _trust_ me.”

“And why would I do that?” John pushes a little harder, scratches a line down to Malcolm’s knuckles and smirks at the shudder that goes through him. 

“B-because...y-you can. I promise. Bec-cause I want—I j-just...just wanna _remember_." 

John traces another line, just slightly deeper, wondering at what point Malcolm will pull away. He’s trying to _behave..._ and oh, John _really_ wants to see how far he can push that. "Not here as NYPD's best anymore, hmm? Hard to know _what_ you want when you're still trying to profile me."

He presses a little harder, this time drawing blood, and Malcolm winces. 

"I...I-I won't…"

"You just _tried._ Every time you look at me, I see you working through what to say, what you think'll get you what you want. I want you to stop looking at me like that. Actually, I just want you to keep those pretty little eyes down, unless I tell you otherwise."

Malcolm further ducks his head, though it makes his dizziness worse. He doesn't want to argue, not with the knife still against his skin. "Okay."

"And keep your mouth _shut._ Speak when you're spoken to, but no more of this bullshit. You mention a fucking _thing_ about what you _think_ you know about me, and I'll beat you within an _inch_ of your life. You hear me? I won't use a switch. I don't know what I'll use. A belt? The tire iron I've got in the car? It'll hurt, little Malcolm— _that_ I promise you. I'll make you _bleed_. Is that what you want?" 

Malcolm vehemently shakes his head, and John responds by stabbing the blade down into Malcolm's hand and shouting, "Speak when you're spoken to!"

Malcolm lets out a scream, words lost in the pain, and then finally sputters, "I'm _sorry!_ No! I—I _don't!_ "

John yanks it out, and blood starts to pour from the wound, spilling onto the floor. Malcolm cradles his hand to his chest, feels warmth on the front of his shirt, and then pulls his legs up and scoots as far back from John as he can.

John only follows him, until he's at the end of the chain's length and can go no further, and then puts the knife under his chin to raise it up. Malcolm sucks in air between clenched teeth, whimpering softly as he squeezes his hand to try and stop the bleeding, and his eyes dart around frantically but never once land to meet John's.

"Look _down_ ," John orders, and Malcolm blinks hard, finally settling his gaze on the floor.

“ _That's_ a good boy." He smiles, wickedly, and with his other hand reaches out to touch along Malcolm’s jaw.

“You're making progress. It's good to see. You're such a fighter...I'm almost disappointed it's going so well. 'Course that's probably the withdrawal. But I wonder if it's something else."

Malcolm doesn't say anything, his breaths coming in short bursts, and John trails the knife up to his cheek, moves the hair out of his face with it and grips his chin tightly to keep him still when he tries to flinch away.

"You're buying time, too, aren't you? Because you think they're coming. Oh, but they're not. I promise, they're not. You will _never_ see them again."

Malcolm blinks, and a tear rolls down his cheek. His mouth opens to protest, and then instead he just whimpers again. John hums, swiping his thumb over Malcolm’s lips, and it's cold and wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —

"Don't cry. I know how they treated you. Like you didn't belong, right? I know. But you didn't. Not with them. You always had a destiny, you just avoided it until now. That's what you'll learn, here. That you and I, little Malcolm...we're not so different. I understand you more than you think I do. I'll be what your father was, to both of us. A mentor. I'll teach you. And you'll learn to be grateful for it."

Malcolm is eerily quiet. He looks like he's removed himself from it all again, hiding somewhere in his head as blood trickles down to his wrist. John doesn't mind, though. It just reminds him how easy it should be to shatter something already so fragile, so cracked, a broken mind held together with a few pieces of tape and _nothing_ else. 

"Look at me."

Malcolm hears it only vaguely, but he forces himself to obey. He can't stand the way John is regarding him, the exact same way Jake had at the gym when he'd had Malcolm pinned to the mat under him, sadistic glee lighting up his face.

"Good," he says, rubbing Malcolm's lower lip again. "Now tell me you understand."

"Yes," Malcolm whispers, and then chokes as John's hand slides down around his throat, pressing just hard enough he can feel his own pulse pounding under the man's fingers. " _Yes!"_

John looks him over, and Malcolm drops his gaze back down to the stone beneath them, every nerve buzzing with anxiety that makes him want to _run_ and adrenaline thrumming through him because he knows he _can't._

" _Good,_ " John says, practically _purring,_ and then finally releases him and stands, sheathing his knife. Malcolm shrinks down against the floor, wiping his mouth on his sleeve so hard he feels it open one of the splits at the corner. Not _enough,_ he still feels _disgusted—_

John kicks the comforter over to him, and a relief comes over Malcolm as he grabs for it, curling it around himself again. Even if he knows in a while it won't be enough, he's already a bit warmer, and it brings him comfort like he doesn't think anything else could at this point.

"Thank me, or I’ll take it back." 

" _Thank you_ ," Malcolm says without hesitation, pressing the fabric down against the back of his hand and grimacing. "Ple—please no. 'm s-so cold. P-please? Th-thank you s-so much...thank you…"

He clutches it tightly, knowing he doesn't have the strength to keep it if John decides to do it anyway. 

Instead, John's smile is audible as he simply replies, "I've watched a lot of people break, little Malcolm, but you...by far, you're my _favorite_."

Malcolm shivers. He closes the blanket over his head, pretends it's worth _anything_ as safety like he used to as a child, when nightmares weren't real and his father wasn't one of them.

The Girl calls his name, and for a moment, he can ignore her. She isn’t the worst thing in the room.

And then he hears John’s footsteps retreating, going up the stairs. The door shuts, and he’s left alone.

Not alone. Never alone. Her chains scrape against the floor, and so do his. 

‘ _Help me,_ ’ she wheezes, and this time he really does laugh, because he can’t even help _himself._

This is what he deserves, isn’t it? Of course it is. John is right, with the wrong reasoning. Or maybe he’s right about that, too. Malcolm murdered someone, someone he can’t even _remember_ , _and_ betrayed his blood. 

_‘You’re going to make me so proud, aren’t you?’_

He retches, spits red after a bout of hacking coughs. He wonders what Martin would think of him now. Would he be proud of his former mentee trying to turn him on the path they’d taken? What would his mother, Ainsley, _Gil_ think? Surely none of them will ever love him again once they find out what he’s done, what he still can't even recall.

_If_ they find out. If anyone ever knew what happened to him at all. If he was ever, ever found, dead or alive.

He chuckles again. He lays his hand out flat and watches in numb indifference as blood oozes from it and seeps down into the blanket.

They aren’t going to find him, are they? 

But with whatever John planned on trying to _teach_ him, to make him do, once he was too weak to resist…well. 

Maybe that’s for the best.


	12. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief mention of (past) self-harm/suicidal thoughts, and some severe dissociation in the beginning bit.
> 
> Also, woo boy. A LOT of whump. Maybe too much.
> 
> (Jk...never too much...)

Malcolm doesn't sleep. He more...drifts somewhere vaguely between reality and dream, startling himself from one to the other with sudden spasms, or gasps of fear from seeing what he can’t remember after.

John had left the water bottle, though likely by accident. Malcom only noticed when he turned to shout at _them_ to leave him alone, but the sight of it had been enough to make him _smile,_ even here. It was nearly impossible to reach, and he'd had to stretch himself far enough that he'd cried and his side had started to bleed again, but now it’s safely under the blanket with him, and he can sip it in the rare moments he isn't nauseous. Sometimes he can keep it down, but it's not enough. He wants to drink the rest of it in one gulp, just to feel a few seconds of relief before he regrets it, but then it would be gone, and he doesn’t know when, or even _if,_ he’ll be getting more.

His hands are warm again, sticky, and he squeezes his eyes shut before he can see the fresh blood covering them. It's not his. It's from the The Girl, from Shannon—from everyone John and his father had ever killed. 

Everyone _he_ has ever killed, maybe.

_‘Sssh, good boy. Good boy. It’s okay. You're doing so well...a natural, aren't you?"_

He swallows hard. He has to stay calm, even as he sees things, even as his heart flips and skips and stutters in his chest, even when he's absolutely sure it's going to stop, because he just _has_ to keep down his last sip. It's the only thing that matters. 

He breathes in, and out. Tries to count, and immediately loses track. His brain isn't working. He can hardly form an entire thought before it fades away and another takes its place, and the rare moments of concentration end with what feels like an electric shock through his brain that makes every limb jerk.

He's gone through withdrawal before, _once_ , at the worst of his sedative abuse, when he'd decided that being like that, being stuck in his head, was worse than anything he could feel without it. But his mother had given him some other kind of pills, and the symptoms had become bearable while they lasted.

That was from, at the time, one specific type of drug. He takes _five_ now, all desperately needed, and the last time they'd changed his medication from one to another they'd weaned him off for _months_ , probably in fear of something like _this_ happening.

It's bad. So bad he isn't sure what's happening anymore after a while, can't remember it's withdrawal causing these things and instead going into panic attacks because he's _dying_ , because he's scared and he wants to go _home_ , because he _killed_ someone, because his heart is racing so fast it's shaking his entire body, or just... _because._

Sometimes he opens his eyes, and he's not in the cellar anymore. He's outside, running through the forest or drowning under ice, and he can no longer talk himself out of it. He can't stop running, because the fear is overpowering. He can't stop struggling, because his lungs burn and the water freezes his skin like it's real. It's _all real,_ until he startles back into the cellar with a cry. 

At some point, though, he stops knowing if the cellar's real, either.

John comes back down often, but Malcolm can't tell how many times. A lot, a few, maybe more, maybe less. John gifts him with a metal pail as a toilet and beatings, all over his arms and his feet, again and _again_ or...or maybe he doesn't. Malcolm can't remember, and then he can, and then it's gone again. He can't breathe, and then he can, and then he can't again. He's back with the FBI, and then with his father in his office, and then absolutely nowhere at all, a dark void of emptiness and confusion. 

In the moments he's lucid enough to, he thinks of Dani, JT, Ainsley, his mom, but his thoughts always end up back at Gil. They, _especially_ Gil, would want him to be strong. They would _expect_ him to be, wouldn't they? Even when he bleeds. Even when he cries. Even when he's so, so, _so tired..._

He'd promised Gil he would fight. All that time ago, sitting beside him in the psych ward's visiting room, he'd promised. Gil needed him alive, so he had to live. He quickly shed the weight they'd made him gain there, but he'd eaten enough to live, for Gil. He liked to sit in high places, to stand on bridges and look down, to step right up to the edge and imagine the relief he would feel as he fell, to wonder if it would feel like _flying_ , but he always stepped back, for Gil. As much as he wanted to, he'd never gone that deep—where it could kill him—again, for Gil. And even when he'd grown angry and cold and _violent,_ when he'd treated Gil and Jackie and _everyone_ horribly because he didn't know how to cope, he'd never broken that promise, and Gil had never wanted him to.

Shouting nasty words in a pointless fight, however, wasn't the same thing as being a _murderer._ Malcolm had long since apologized for all that, and Gil had long since forgiven it.

But Gil would never forgive _this._

"Please," he begs at some point, grasping at John's sleeve like it's someone who would ever give him what he wanted instead of more pain. "Please, t-t-tell me, I—"

"Tell you?" John asks. He reaches out to grab his chin, _gently_ , and runs his finger underneath it, and while it still makes him flinch Malcolm finds himself almost, _almost_ leaning into it. It’s grounding, it’s something, it _doesn't hurt._

"Can you handle me telling you? You don't look so good, little Malcolm…"

Malcolm nods, weakly, even though the answer is probably _no._ There's very little he _could_ handle in this state. But the incomplete memories and fluttering visions are killing him faster than any illness could, and he _just…_

He _has...to…remember_. 

"She's...she's...I—the tr—the trunk…" 

"I told you,” John replies, “you’ve never been able to leave well enough alone. Do you remember sneaking around when you should have been sleeping, the night we came here?"

_'Where are you going, Malcolm?'_

_'The—the, uh—bathroom?'_

_'No...you were going outside, weren't you? You want to see her, don't you? Come on...I can show you.'_

Malcolm gulps for air. He looks behind John, and The Girl's there, always there, won’t leave him _alone_ no matter how loud he gets telling her to.

_'Malcolm…'_

"You...you t-took me out...to th—the c-car," he says slowly.

John hums, rewards him with another little stroke under his chin. "Very good. What next?" 

That triggers something, some vague, dangerous hope that if maybe he can _keep_ being very good, at least in John's eyes, it would lead to the pain stopping altogether, or being given something to help him _sleep._ There isn’t much he wouldn’t do to just _fucking rest_ for a while, but this sudden, almost overwhelming urge to obey scares him. He can't do that. There's still a very real threat he doesn't want to think about, and _that..._ feeding into the helplessness John wants more than anything to see...that's not to be risked. It _can't_ be.

"Dunno…" he mumbles, wincing, and it takes him too long to decide to tilt his head away. It's not real. It's not real. John just wants to hurt him. He can't let himself be tricked like this, however sick he is. It won't lead anywhere good. "'m so tired…c-can't think…"

"Yes, you can…" John's finger runs over Malcolm's cheek, tucking his hair behind his ear in an act so horrifyingly _tender_ that Malcolm chokes on his breath and yanks back. 

"No, d-don't—" he says, and John smirks at him. 

"I'd probably give you more if you let me do what I wanted, little Malcolm…"

"Wh—what d-do you _want?"_ Malcolm asks, afraid of the answer, but John simply shrugs a shoulder and gestures dismissively, like it doesn't matter, like it's not the _only_ thing that matters.

_"Think._ I took you outside, to the back of the camper…" 

Malcolm’s vision flickers. Vaguely, he sees the window to the trunk, fogged and frosted, and then—

Hands clawing at the glass, banging on it, screaming for help—

_'Malcolm!'_

He scrambles back, and the chains jerk. He pants, his eyes wide, and John laughs.

"She scared you back then, too! Ran right back inside to Daddy. Didn't see you again till morning."

Malcolm licks his lips, his tongue so dry it sticks to them. "I...I…"

"Oh, you're shaking so hard...poor thing...I might bring you another blanket if you really impress me. Come on...tell me what we did next."

Malcolm hugs himself tightly, rocking. Another blanket? He could be so much warmer…but he's in so much _pain,_ his hand, his side, his _entire body._ He hasn't slept in what feels like years, and his brain, _God,_ it feels like it's on fucking _fire,_ like someone lit a match inside his skull and all he can do is sit here and _burn._

He recalls, vaguely, being in the forest. His dad warning him to be careful of the ice. Asking if they could come back, because he wanted to go swimming. When was that?

"R...remember...walking," he says. "Dad…I...uh…"

"That's good...that's right...go on…focus..."

He strains to get past the haze, but another zap of electricity through his brain startles him enough he forgets any progress he might have made. It's just... _not_ _working._ He _can't_ focus, no matter how many times John tells him to.

"I…p- _please,_ just...h-help me, I can't—"

_'Help me_ ,' The Girl echoes, right in his ear, and he cries out, jerking his head to the side.

"No!" 

"Oh, you poor thing," John says, taking Malcolm's chin in his hand again to bring his attention back. "Seeing things again?" 

_Again._ As if he ever stopped. He wildly looks around for her, makes the mistake of eye-contact with John for just a _second,_ and then shies away as John grabs for his arm. "N-no, _wait_ —I'm _sorry—_ ”

John ignores him, doing the same thing he's decided to every time Malcolm's disobeyed the _rule_ about keeping his eyes down. 

He takes his knife, and uses it to violently gouge out the scab on the back of Malcolm's hand.

Malcolm wails, kept there with a crushing grip on his wrist, his feet sliding on stone as he tries to get back and leaving smears of blood. " _Please!"_

"You'll learn," John says eventually, releasing him, and Malcolm chokes on his tears, weeping openly as he doubles over, his hand clutched against him. So many times of the skin being reopened and torn deeper into has left it badly swollen, the pain now spread all the way through it and up half his arm, and as much as he needs to put pressure on the wound it just hurts too much. Instead, he can only leave it to drip more blood down to the floor, to add to the puddle under where he's been resting it outside the blanket, the coolness of the stone against the hot, inflamed skin the only thing that makes it slightly bearable.

"I'm—I'm s-s _-sorry_ ," he gasps, and John pats his head, much like one would a _pet._

"I know. You're just not sorry _enough._ "

"No...no, I _am,_ I'm…" 

"You're not. That's okay. We'll get there." He touches Malcolm's forehead, and then cups his cheek. "You’re burning up, you know that? Really getting put through the ringer, here, aren't you?"

"Please," Malcolm coughs, wiping under his nose. “Who...who w-was she?”

John rubs his finger along Malcolm’s jaw, watching for a reaction, but Malcolm doesn’t even seem to notice. He hadn’t been anywhere near this feverish the last time John had been down, but...it’s what he needs. It’s a cleansing. It's not supposed to be painless. There’s nothing Malcolm can do but go through it, and come out pure.

Still...the boy looks so _pathetic,_ so small and frightened…and John's been so hard on him. He figures he could probably give him _something._ It’s not like it will make him feel any better, right? "Which one?"

Malcolm looks like that pains him more than anything. For as long as he's been down here, he _clearly_ hasn't been using the time the way he should be. "There...were two…"

"Mmm...was there? Maybe there was more. How many people have you killed, little Malcolm?"

Malcolm hiccups out a sob, sniffling, and drives his palm up against one eye. "M-more?" he whispers. "N...no. No. No. I didn't. P-please...please, my head hurts, it h- _hurts…_ "

John watches him, and each pained noise Malcolm makes only makes him feel higher. Malcolm is _precious_ , the way he thinks he’s just so innocent, the way he pretends that what he chose to do in life was at all justified, that he isn't just like the father he betrayed. He looks so scared, so confused...John wants to pin him down again, wants to beat him into the floor, wants to splinter that little mind into _pieces_. 

"Ssh, I know it does," he says, getting a little closer, stroking his other hand through Malcolm's hair. "You know...this is where he'd teach me."

Malcolm's next breath catches in his throat, and before he can stop himself he's staring up at John again. "Wh... _what?"_

John clicks his tongue, digging his nails into Malcolm's scalp, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, clutches his hand against him. 

"Sh— _shit_ , no! No, no, I-I'm sorry—"

"What did I _say?"_

"L-look d-down," Malcolm says, twisting like he can actually do anything to stop this or protect himself, like he isn't chained to the floor and at John's mercy. "I—I won't do it again! I'm sorry, j-just an ac—an accident…d-don't…"

John grabs ahold of his wrist, but doesn't immediately take his knife to it. He squeezes, bends it forward, and Malcolm moans, rubbing his face against shoulder. 

"Hurts, does it? Doesn't seem to be working, though. I'll have to find something else. What will make you obey me, little Malcolm?"

"Water," he says, and then bites down on his shirt with a grunt as John scoffs and squeezes harder.

"No. That's a lie. You already stole some. I let you keep it because I'm _kind,_ but you won't get more until you're good. And you're not being good, are you?" 

Malcolm sucks in a breath between his gritted teeth, his other hand fisted against his knee, doing his best not to show just how _much_ it hurts and not fooling John for a second. 

"T-trying," he whimpers, and then finally cries out when John moves his hand down to press his thumb over the wound. " _Stop!"_

"That was another lie," John says, calmly, and digs his nail down into it, and Malcolm yells again and slams his foot against John's leg. 

"Don't you kick me, _boy!_ I'll cut this hole straight through to the other side! Is that what you want?"

"Just—let— _go!"_ Malcolm shouts, writhing, but John keeps pushing harder, until his finger is coated in warm blood to the knuckle and Malcolm _screams_.

"How about you try telling the truth for a change, huh?" he scoffs, tossing Malcolm's arm back at him and watching him fall onto his side, helplessly clutching onto it at the elbow as rivulets of deep red run down to his fingertips.

"Think you can stop being a lying little _bitch?_ Or do I really need to bleed it out of you? I haven't tried your side yet…is that where I should go next? Come here. Let's try that."

Malcolm suddenly _laughs_ , grating and hoarse, and shakes his head before laughing again, a little weaker.

"Is that _funny?"_

"No," Malcolm manages, and a third giggle quickly turns into a sob as he shrugs. "You're g—y-you—g-g-gonna k-kill me." 

"Kill you?" John says. "I'd hate to. I really would."

Malcolm looks up at the ceiling, then back down to the floor. Maybe John won't _mean_ to, but if the fever doesn't end him, the pain will. Maybe he's weak, maybe he's never been as strong as he's forced himself to act, but he can't take this much longer. He just can't. Or maybe it'll be the exhaustion that gets him, or the thirst. He's not really hungry yet, still fighting nausea, but at some point that's going to change. Something will kill him. 

And yet, he's still more scared of what will happen if it _doesn't._

John regards him in a sudden, uncomfortable silence. Malcolm doesn't dare raise his head, and the inability to read John's face, to have any sort of hint at his intentions, is worse than anything. That's probably the point, to take away his only defense, the only thing he could still use. 

But in the end, does it even matter? He could read John's mind, his exact thoughts, and still wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

"Maybe we'll try something else," John says, a sinister hint of elation in his voice, and Malcolm makes himself a little smaller.

"It's emptied out now, but...right where you're laying...this is where they'd _bleed_ , little Malcolm. Where your father and I would _make_ them bleed."

Malcolm gets that lovely look of terror on his face again, and John smiles, wondering what else it will take to get the boy to freeze as perfectly still and _compliant_ as he had upstairs. Is it only unwanted touch? Can it be brought on by pain? What will hurt him _most?_ He's already bent, but John wants him to snap in _half_ , and he can't wait to find out what ultimately provokes that. 

"Oh, yes. Right here. They died right _here._ And you know...I saved some things. A lot of things. Would you like to see some of them?"

Malcolm keeps his eyes on the ground, tilting his head. "Of...o-of what?" he asks, though isn't sure he actually wants to find out.

"Our tools, of course," John says, too happily. "We had so many. I can bring them down. We can play with them."

Tools. Their _tools._

"Oh—" he chokes, cutting off as he gags. Images of medical trays and syringes and scalpels and torn open bodies flood through his head, and he shakes it, both to clear it and in a protest he already knows damn well will be ignored. "N-no. _No, I—_ "

"Oh, but it'll be fun! You just wait here." He stands, and Malcolm misses as he tries to grab for John's foot to prevent him leaving.

"No! W-wait! Don't!" He drops himself down to the floor, arms over his head, and starts to cry. He's pathetic. He's _weak._ Gil wouldn't be crying, if it were him. Gil wouldn't be begging. He'd be strong. Why can't Malcolm just be _stronger?_ Nothing but a goddamn disappointment...a traitor. He deserves this. John is giving him the kind of pain he could never inflict on himself, the kind he's had coming his entire wretched life.

"It'll be okay!" John calls from the top of the steps, and then, moments later as he returns, "Well, maybe not _okay_ , but…" 

He sets something heavy down in the middle of the floor, and Malcolm doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to know what it is. The Girl strokes a finger down his back, taunting, and he can't...he can't do this, he just _can't…_

"I knew they'd come in handy again…" John murmurs, sounding like he's speaking more to himself than Malcolm at this point, and Malcolm cracks his eyes open, looks out through the gap under his arms to see the edge of an old brown duffel bag.

There's a noise, metal hitting metal as John pulls something out, and Malcolm feels his heart drop when he sees John set down a hammer against the stone.

"Oh, look at all this…beautiful…"

"No, no, no," Malcolm mumbles, shivering. He imagines the pain of his fingers being smashed, his bones breaking, the crunch of them shifting every time he'll try to move, the utter helplessness of being unable to escape even if the chance came up and smacked him in the face—

"Oh, _perfect_ ," John coos, and Malcolm regrets looking again, because John has pulled out a _fucking_ _axe_ from the bag, and the sight of his giddy smile sends Malcolm into _hysterics._

"God, John, _please—"_ he gasps, again scrambling as far away as the chain will allow and then still trying to get further, frantically yanking on the shackles. "No! No, no, _no!_ "

John looks absolutely thrilled, his eyes lighting up. "This? This scares you? It should. You know what we used this for? Bet you do." He stands up, swinging it experimentally, and Malcolm pulls harder.

"Get— _don't_ —" 

"Still sharp...could do some _real_ damage to that tiny body of yours, couldn't it?" John asks, brandishing the blade towards him. "My, it really could just knock your wrist clean off. How bad do you think that would hurt? Pretty bad? They were usually dead by the time your father got to this part. Usually. Sometimes he'd get curious! Like I said. People can bleed a _lot_ before they actually die. I've got a saw in here, too, somewhere…oh, that _would_ be fun…"

Malcolm crumples over, bracing himself on his arms, and retches loudly as John watches in amusement.

"Oh, no! You didn't like that? But I have so many stories I could share! There's so much in this bag. So many memories." He positions the axe's handle across the back of both shoulders, resting his arms there as he breathes deep and lets out a wistful sigh. "Oh, I miss Martin. Best time of my life. Then you had to go and ruin it. Isn't it fitting that I'm the one chosen to punish you?"

" _Chosen_ —" Malcolm spits out, wiping his mouth, and John grips the axe tightly, glaring down at him.

" _What_ was that? I know you wouldn't talk back to me when I can kill you right here with one swing, right?"

Maybe he'd been going to. Malcolm can't remember. But he isn't Gil. He isn't strong enough. 

However, he might be _smart_ enough. Might at least be able to delay what he fears may be inevitable.

"No," he says, holding a hand up and coughing a few more times before he swallows. He's careful to keep his eyes down as he faces John again, a fresh trickle of blood trailing down from his nose. "I w-want to kn-know…ab-bout you."

John narrows his eyes, takes a threatening step forward. "You want to _what?_ I told you not to profi—"

"'m not!" Malcolm quickly says, lowering himself down further. "I'm not. No. P-promise. I don't...I d-don't know anything...about you. But y-you can t-tell me. Y-you're ch-chosen…? Wha's it mean? You n-never told me...about f-finding your...purpose."

"I tried to," John says. "I tried to make you understand before. You cut the phone off to call help for Father Leo. That was more important, wasn't it?"

"No," Malcolm says. "No, I—I was wrong to int—ter—terrupt." He lurches, like maybe he's about to be sick again, and then instead just groans low in his throat, his eyes sliding half-closed.

"You were," John agrees. "What hurts?"

" _Everything,_ " Malcolm wheezes, and John smiles, lets the axe clatter down to the stone and chuckles at the violent flinch Malcolm gives at the noise.

"Sit up. Get on your knees."

Slowly, Malcolm obeys. He slips one hand under his shirt, holding his side, and looks at the floor between them. His other remains limp between his thighs, useless, bright red against his black pants. 

"You want to listen, little Malcolm?" 

Malcolm sways a little. Just needs to buy some time…hurts too much to take anything else right now. So tired…so tired...never been so _tired..._

" _Hmm?"_

He startles upright again, blinking hard, and nods. "Yes...please...t-tell me. Wanna hear."

John looks him over, and then he sits down, settles himself back against the wall.

"Alright. Don't think this is gonna get you out of consequences for earlier, but I'll tell you. Maybe learn you a few things, hmm?"

"Yes," Malcolm agrees. He looks hardly able to keep his eyes open, his face twisted into an expression of desperation and exhaustion and _pain,_ but maybe, John thinks, _just maybe_ , he's ready.

"You were lucky," he begins. "Spoiled. I keep telling you that. You had a father who _doted_ on you. Gave you the damn world. You remember that, don't you? Keeps sounding like you don't. Like you think he kept _you_ chained up. You were nothing but smiles every time I saw you. I didn't _get_ that. I didn't get hugs. I didn't get _love."_

"Sorry," Malcolm says, quiet, distant, and John grits his teeth, clenches his fists. 

"Say it again. I'll bash your fucking head in, you hear me? Shut your mouth!"

Malcolm ducks his head, and John growls, "That's not good enough! Cover it!"

Malcolm hesitates, and then pulls his hand out of his shirt to reach up and place it over his lips. 

"Good. Take it off, and I take it _off_ ," he says, gesturing at the axe. "I don't want your _sorries_ , boy. They're bullshit. I hope you don't think I'm _that_ stupid. Do you?" 

Malcolm shakes his head, and John rather likes the way he looks like this. Finally _quiet,_ resigned…powerless... _his_. It's dangerous, how _much_ John suddenly wants to—

"When I met him," he continues, if a bit hoarse, "your father, I was nothing. Like you. Thought I could live a lie. Like you. Just a damn janitor. Just to afford to eat, to keep off the streets. Oh, but _you_...pfft. You've never had to worry about that, huh? Never had to struggle a day in your life. Never _really_ suffered until now. You just make problems for yourself, because you don't have any. You're pathetic, Malcolm _Whitly."_

Malcolm's gaze slides to the right, his brow furrowing.

"You know that, don't you? How pathetic and _worthless_ you are? That you're _nothing?_ Speak." 

"Yes," Malcolm says, and then clamps his hand down harder than before.

"Good. That's good to know. But I can make you _something_. I want to help you. That's why I'm doing this. You have to break before I can rebuild you. Like I said, you'll learn to be grateful. I was. Your father was a beautiful man…we met when I was cleaning up after one of his surgeries. Don't know what it was, but he saw something in me. Saw _me_. Made me feel special. I could give that to you, little Malcolm. I could make you feel _wanted."_

In response, Malcolm makes a face of absolute disgust, and John would slap it off with all the strength he possessed if he was just a bit closer. Who does this little _fuck_ think he is?

"You think you'd rather be with them? Damn idiot. They didn't want you. Not really. People like us aren't wanted by people like _them._ How do you think they'd feel about you if they knew, huh? If they knew what you _really_ did to that poor girl?"

Things tilt, enough Malcolm nearly loses balance. A dull flicker of light through trees, a breeze across his face, mumbling behind him—

_'Oh, Malcolm...what did you do?'_

Malcolm's body jerks, and he gags, pulling his hand away.

Instantly, John grabs for the axe, getting to one knee. "What the _fuck_ did I say?" 

"I—"

"Put it _back!"_

Malcolm obeys, and his shoulders hunch up as he heaves against his palm, shuddering as he starts to cough.

"What're you choking on, huh? Nothing even coming outta you. Sit back up!"

Swallowing bile, trying to breathe, Malcolm manages to do that, too, if only barely. What...did he do? That had been... _Martin's_ voice, what—what _had_ he done? He groans softly, mumbles the question aloud, but it can't be heard.

"Good. He taught me patience, but I don't have much of it left now." He leans back again, listening to Malcolm struggle to catch his breath through his nose, and then continues once he's a bit quieter.

"We stayed in touch. Talked about our common...interests. Became _friends._ And then he invited me camping. Oh, that's when the fun started. This place was already his…he'd had it built years before. Paid migrants with cash, he told me. That's how I know no one will find you. There's no trail. Isn't that something? And you know, it’s really a beautiful place. _Beautiful_. God's country. When I know I can trust you, when you're _good_ , I might even take you outside. Couple deep breaths of that clear air'll make you better than any pills could, I promise you that.

“Lot of people feel the same, you know? They like to go hiking, walking. All alone, sometimes...such a bad idea. We’d pick from different places, but never from here. New York has a few real good grounds, too. Always better to bring ‘em across state lines, though."

Malcolm thinks, somewhere, he already knew it, but the confirmation has his throat constricting, a muffled cry escaping from behind his fingers. He's never going home. He's _never_ going home. How many state lines had they crossed, exactly? Are they even _near_ New York anymore? He's never going home...John is right, he'll never see them again, not ever, they'll never even _know_...he's going to be stuck here, _forever,_ with John and the ghosts in his head, and he can't—he just _can't!_

He crumples, and this time, as hard as the sobs that shake him are, there are no more tears. He just cries, quietly, and then suddenly John is right beside him. 

"Ssh, little Malcolm," he purrs, sliding a hand up Malcolm's back, and Malcolm shakes his head, slapping at his arm.

"Don't—touch—" Malcolm manages to wheeze, and John does it anyway, settles his hand between Malcolm's shoulder blades and yanks his shackles together so he can't fight it.

"Ssh," he repeats, undeterred, rubbing even as Malcolm's back arches and he loudly protests. "You're better off without them. They can't be redeemed, but you can. You're special. I don’t have to hurt you, you know that? This can all end. You can come upstairs. We can get to work. You don’t have to suffer. I just need you to _submit._ Are you ready to do that?”

"Stop—" Malcolm gasps, and he's shaking so hard it's like he's falling apart, just from _touch._ So simple, so _effective._

He moves his hand down to Malcolm's waist, and Malcolm shrieks, " _No!"_ and somehow manages to twist himself around enough to kick him. There's no real strength behind it, and it doesn't hurt, but it's annoying. If the boy can still fight, still _wants_ to fight, he hasn't been down here long enough. It means he _isn't_ ready yet. A little longer, perhaps. Lack of food and water will get to him. He wants the boy _listless,_ near-dead if need be. It's the only way.

He stands up, and the way Malcolm collapses so completely shows just how _tense_ he was, scratching at the floor as he gasps.

“Not yet,” John says, nodding. “You’re still...impure. That’s okay. I never expected it to be easy. But it has to be done. And in the meantime...I don’t _mind_ hurting you.” 

He picks up the axe, twisting it in his hands. “It’s cathartic, you know?”

“You—you _can’t,_ ” Malcolm says, his wide eyes on the blade as John swings it through the air. 

“Oh?"

Malcolm nods, trying to piece himself together into something coherent, at least enough to avoid _this._ “You—you can’t t-take me to a h-hospital, you—I c-could die, you might…”

“You can lose a lot of blood…” John says, and Malcolm grimaces. 

“I have." He raises his arm, just enough, and gestures to the dried red stains on his shirt, and then to the floor. "M-my side. An' my hand. An' I’m dehyd—drated. I’m sick. I haven’t s-slept. W...won't survive."

John sighs, disappointed.“Guess you’re right. Still—” 

He brings the axe down right beside Malcolm’s hand, _far_ too close to taking off his little finger, and Malcolm swears, jerking back. 

John chuckles, and then clicks his tongue. “Aww,” he says, pulling the axe up to inspect it. “Broke the handle. Shame."

Panting, Malcolm doesn't think of _rules,_ his eyes flickering up to John’s and then down at the weapon, trying to gauge whether or not he’s going to have to fight for his life.

John scoffs. “Still trying to get in my head. I saw that. Haven’t made you hurt enough. That’s okay. I think I can actually still get some use out of this, if I just…”

He touches the blade to the ground, puts his shoe over it, and kicks down hard, wrenches the handle upwards until the head cracks completely off. He nudges it aside with his foot, and Malcolm doesn’t have the chance to feel relief before John is swinging the handle down to crack against his back.

It knocks the breath from him in a noiseless cry, sends him sprawling, and there’s nothing he can do, no words he can form, to stop John from doing it a second time.

His lungs seize, and he manages to suck in half a breath, letting it out in a hoarse wail of, “ _John!”_

“Yes, little Malcolm?” John asks, smiling as he rests it over his shoulder again. "Something wrong?"

Malcolm slams his palm down against the floor, trying desperately to breathe, but he _can’t._ His ears ring, drowning out everything else. A third strike lands against one of his knees, a fourth against the other, and the shock finally allows him to raggedly drag in a gasp. Colors spiral behind his eyes, and he’s not entirely sure his back isn’t broken until his body curls into itself on its own. He manages to fold his arms over his head, hopes it's enough to stay alive, because it can't take another hit, it just _can't._

“Please—” he says, but it’s barely a sound at all. 

“You haven't slept," John replies, breathlessly, and Malcolm can hardly hear it. "I'm just helping you.”

He swings again, and Malcolm realizes a split-second too late that he’s not protecting what he should be. The handle connects directly down upon the wound on his side, and there’s a flash of red-hot agony that blinds him, and then…

And then nothing, for a long while.

He drifts, somewhere dark. He doesn’t see The Girl. He doesn’t see his father, or the forest, or the lake. He doesn’t see _anything,_ doesn’t feel, until suddenly he does, until pain harshly jerks him back into reality.

It’s less, but not by much. His throat is sore, and he realizes he's crying again, but he doesn't bother trying to stop. He doesn’t think he can move, and he's not going to try that, either. He cracks his eyes open, then closes them again. Light hurts. Breathing hurts. But he’s still getting air. Shallow, desperate gulps, but enough.

He thinks he's alone again. And She’s quiet, for once. Maybe...maybe he can rest a bit more. Just until it stops hurting...just until...

He hears thudding upstairs, and whimpers as the door opens. "No,” he says, because he can't take anymore, not yet, _please_ —and then shrieks as hands grab him. " _No!_ "

"Bright!"

He opens his eyes, and in front of him is _Gil._

He looks so _worried,_ cupping Malcolm's cheeks, and Malcolm stares, his mouth falling open. 

"You with me? Hey. Malcolm!"

"Gil…?" he manages to whisper, blinking hard. He touches Gil's jacket, his neck, his beard, and it feels like him. It smells like him. But it can't be him…can it? 

"Is 'at…you?" 

Gil nods, smiles, and _hugs_ him. It feels real. It feels just like him, reminds him of when he was a child, of when he'd climb his way into Gil's lap any time he was over, desperate for comfort. And Gil had never pushed him away. He'd held him for as long as Malcolm wanted, read him books until he fell asleep, been everything in his time of need.

And now here again, just when he needs him more than ever.

"I'm here, kid. We're here for you." 

He's so warm. Gil is so _warm,_ and Malcolm is so cold. He trembles, watching as Gil unlocks the cuffs, and then reaches up and grabs onto him.

"You found me," he cries, trying to get closer, to curl himself up against Gil's chest like back then. "I—I knew you'd—I _hoped_ —"

Gil cups the back of his head, so loving and delicate, and Malcolm buries his face in Gil's shoulder, sobbing. 

"Gil... _Gil…_ please...I wanna go...home! I hurt...hurt so m- _much…_ I'm sorry...I tried to…"

"Ssh," Gil soothes. "I'm proud of you. We all are. You're safe, Malcolm. You're safe now. I've got you."

He nuzzles closer, and Gil easily lifts him up. Over Gil's shoulder he sees JT, Dani, and he hums happily as she approaches to cup his cheek, to pet his hair, to tell him they never stopped looking, not ever.

He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

They found him. He's safe. He's _safe._ He can go _home._

Gil holds him close, and Malcolm hopes he never lets go. 

"Let's get you home, kid. Okay?"

Malcolm smiles dreamily, hugging himself tighter. He doesn't feel the shackles still around his wrists dragging on the floor, or the cold still seeping deep into his bones. He doesn't feel anything except safe. He just feels _safe._ Gil is here now. Everything is going to be fine.

And to the still empty room, he replies, "Okay."


	13. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year guys!! Thank you for all your love and support!!
> 
> (*＾3＾)/～♡

It’s quiet.

She can hear the rain pattering on the roof of the precinct, the air conditioner rumble to life, and her breath against her hands clasped in front of her mouth as she breathes. Just breathes. She needs to remember to breathe more.

She isn’t someone to admit when the cases really get to her. She never has been. Even when Gil worries for her. Even when he tries to get her to talk. She trusts him, but she doesn’t know if she trusts anyone _enough_ to do that, to be _weak_ in front of them. She’s never had that before, and she thinks it’d be a bit weird to start now.

But for the second time, Bright can just _tell_ , reads her like a book he opened despite the lock she thought she put on the cover. And as he approaches her with two cups, Dani leans back in her chair, wiping her eyes. No tears, yet. Those will be for later, when she’s alone.

"Are you gonna make a habit of this?" she asks, and Bright smiles, so innocently, as he holds one out. 

"Does it make you feel better?" 

She _tsks,_ then takes it. Earl Grey, of course. A little smile inches at the corner of her mouth, and she rolls her eyes. "Yeah."

"Then yes," he says, leaning against the desk and tapping their cups together. "I'd take you to a tearoom, if you let me. I think you'd like it.”

"Oh, yeah," she scoffs, taking a long drink. It's hot against her lips, her tongue, but not unpleasantly. It brings her back to herself, out of her head. She should never stay there too long. "Thanks, but...doesn’t really sound like my scene.”

Bright sips his own and shrugs a shoulder. "Offer stands," he says, and then clears his throat. "Today was...hard."

"It was," she agrees, tapping her nails on the styrofoam. "I hate when it involves kids."

"Me too." Bright purses his lips, probably trying not to go all textbooks and definitions on her again, and it's flattering how careful he is around her, especially when she’s like this, how he wants to make every word count towards making her like him more instead of less.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks finally, and she takes a deep breath.

"That’s sweet, Bright, but...I think we'd both rather forget, yeah?" 

Bright smiles again, far more exhausted, and nods. The cup is warming her hands, and she looks down at it, vaguely thinks about how it's doing the same to his.

Thinks, just a little, about how their fingers might feel intertwined.

“You want children,” Bright says, and she huffs out an aggravated sigh. 

“ _Bright._ ”

Bright looks horrified, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. He grimaces, squirms a little, and then straightens up. “Sorry, that—I should—”

She reaches out, settling her hand on his arm, and he jumps half a foot in the air. “Stay. It’s...it’s fine. Just...remember what we said? About asking?”

“It just slipped out,” he says, fumbling, his gaze stuck on where she’s touching him. “I, uh...ah, I’m sorry.”

She smiles, just a little. She knows by now Bright’s not always entirely conscious of what he says, that words often fall out without _his_ permission, let alone anyone else’s. It’s not something she can hold against him anymore. It’s just... _Bright._

“I know,” she replies, and pulls away, watching him roll his shoulders as he tries to relax. “I, uh... _well_...I’ve thought about it. But then I’ve also thought...about everything we see, every day. And I...I mean, how could I bring a _kid_ into that? Into _this?_ It’s...selfish. Isn’t it?”

Bright is quiet, for once. Thoughtful. She can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“Wants are generally selfish,” he says at last. “But, then again...you’d make a wonderful mother.”

She feels her ears grow hot, reaching up to rub the back of her neck, to wrap a curl around one finger. 

“In...my professional opinion,” he explains, and she notices a red tinge across his face. “You’re strong. You care, more than you like to admit. I could go on, but...I’d like to stay on your good side. _And_ you’ve taken care of _me_. So, really, you’re already prepared.”

She laughs, and the tinge darkens. 

“You’re right,” she says. “I’m an expert by now.” 

“See? I’m at least _slightly_ worth keeping around.”

It seems like he was trying to make a joke, but it comes off a little too sad. He takes a deep breath, looking down at his drink, and she feels her stomach twist. 

“You’re worth it for more than that, Bright. _Friend,”_ she says, tapping their cups again, mostly to try and get his attention back from wherever in his head that he’s gone. 

He looks up at her, biting his lip. His eyes shine, the same way that’s made her think countless times before just how fitting the last name he picked is.

“Friend,” he says, fondly.

And then she blinks, and Bright is gone. The cup falls from her hand, and when it spills on the floor, what comes out is blood, so _much_ of it, covering the carpet and her shoes.

"Bright!" She whips around, but the precinct is dark. She's alone. She's terribly, awfully alone, she will _always be alone_ —

Her phone rings, startles her awake with a gasp. The ceiling fades in, and her ringtone plays again, and for once she's glad to hear it. It brings her back.

Bright hadn’t disappeared then. They’d both finished their tea and gone home. They’d both come back to work the next day.

Now, reality isn’t so different. 

Slowly, she reaches out, blindly grabbing for it and then answering with a croaked, "Lead?"

The line is static for a moment, and then Gil says, as he has for the last fifteen long days, "No.”

Dani closes her eyes, inhaling deep through her nose. 

“But we, uh...we have a case.”

Yeah," she says. "I figured. Be right there."

She swings her legs down to the floor, and looks around. 

Still empty. 

Her cell beeps as Gil texts her an address. Sunshine chirps in her cage, and Dani makes sure to fill up her food bowl again before she leaves.

"You weren't at home," Gil says when she arrives at the scene. "Came by before I called. I was gonna buy you a coffee."

"Oh, yeah," she says, clearing her throat. "Ainsley gave me keys to Bright's. Somebody's gotta feed his bird."

Gil must wonder why that means she was there all night, but he doesn't ask. JT's picked up a sudden craving for lollipops, Edrisa's taken to speaking only in sentences that begin with, ' _If Bright was here, he'd say…'_ , and Gil's shirt collar is wrinkled, his sunglasses staying on even inside to cover what she assumes is a mild hangover. They're all coping in their own ways.

The case is solved, because of course it is. They had no trouble before Bright, more trouble with him if anything. Another will come. Another week will pass. And they'll have to pretend things are normal. The manhunt is spread out nationally, to the rest of the FBI and the U.S. Marshals, and still, Bright isn't found.

The pocket-knife, they find, could have been sold anywhere in the country. The hospital lead nowhere. Multiple searches of any property Dr. Whitly or John Watkins or Paul Lazar had owned didn’t bring Bright home.

They’re told to be patient. Told that since there’s more people in this now, it’s more likely that he’ll turn up.

_Likely,_ John buried him somewhere and took off. They'll never find him, or any part of him. 

But that’s not something she can accept. And she won't. She just _won't._

JT hands her a lollipop as she leaves late that night, and she really laughs for the first time in a long time.

"Somebody's gotta," he says, shrugging. 

"I knew some part of you liked him," she says, popping it in her mouth. Lemon lime. The first Bright had given her. Stupid thing to remember, but something she can't forget.

"He's alright," JT replies, as if anyone couldn't see through it. He thinks for a moment, and then adds, "It doesn't feel right, him not here."

She swallows. For a moment, she tastes more sadness than candy. 

"No," she agrees. "It doesn't."

When she gets back to Bright's, she finds a bag outside the door, with her favorite ground coffee inside and a handful of familiar lime hard candies. 

She puts the coffee on the counter, the candy beside Bright's pill bottles, and then curls into his bed again.

It smells more like her than it does him now.

**x**

Her finger hovering over his name in her list of contacts, Ainsley debates calling Jin. 

She's not sure what she feels, exactly. It's not that she misses him, she doesn't think. Maybe a bit. Maybe there’s always been a little part of her that regrets what happened.

But it's more than that, right now. She needs something. Someone. And maybe that’s because she’s a fool.

Or maybe it's the three full glasses of wine she's downed. Could be either, she supposes.

She puts her phone away, and thinks for a few minutes longer.

And then she takes a cab across town, and knocks on his door.

It’s late. Nearing midnight by now. No one answers for a minute, and she braces herself against the wall, feels a little nauseous and _very_ stupid, and then it cracks open.

“Ainsley?” Jin asks, squinting at her and then rubbing his eyes, probably to make sure he’s not still dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

“I think—” She cuts off, stumbles, and he’s caught her before she can fall. 

“Hey, Ains. Ains, are you okay?”

“I think Malcolm’s gone,” she says, and clings to him, buries her face in his shoulder and starts to cry. “I think he might be gone forever.”

Jin must be able to smell the alcohol on her. She must look pathetic. And Ainsley Whitly doesn’t _ever_ look pathetic. Not like this. It’s shameful.

But he doesn’t push her away. Instead, he pulls her inside, leads her to the couch, and sits down with her. 

“I know,” he replies. “I saw on the news. I’m sorry.”

She snivels, tugging hair out of her mouth as she looks up at him. “He’s gone, and I...I don’t know what to do. I...I thought...he’d come back...I thought...and now...”

“Hey,” he says, rubbing her back gently. “They’ll find him. He’s out there.”

Shaking her head, she wipes at her eyes. It’s useless. More tears just replace the old. "It's been...almost…sixteen days. It’s next _year._ He spent—he spent Christmas...and New Year’s... _kidnapped._ Sixteen days. And then it'll be thirty, and a hundred, and forever. He's dead, isn't he? He's _dead,_ and I'm never gonna see him again, and I—"

"Ainsley, _stop,_ " Jin says, and she does, chokes the words back. He holds her shoulders, trying to keep her steady. “Stop. This isn’t you! You don’t...give up. You’re just drunk. You _are_ going to see him again.”

His body, maybe. But she doesn’t say that. She doesn't think she can _handle_ saying that. 

Malcolm had always been there for her. Always. Even when, later, too late, she'd found out he was suffering more than he'd ever let her know.

And now, yet again, she's stuck, unable to help him. She doesn't know what she can do, again. She can't do anything to help him, _again._ And he's not safe in a psych hospital. He's a prisoner, and she doesn't even want to _imagine_ the things he might be going through. 

But she does. She imagines her brother trapped in a car, like all the rest of the victims, while machinery crushes him. Imagines him bleeding, broken, hurt, _afraid._

She imagines never, ever finding out at all, and that's worse than any of it.

“I just...I miss him,” she whispers. “I miss him, and I’m...scared.”

“I know.” He offers her a little smile. “I’m sorry. But they’re _going_ to find him. Okay? You can’t think like that. You just can’t.”

She touches his cheek, gently, and he winces, taking her hand and pulling it away. 

“I miss you, too,” she says, and he shifts uncomfortably, shaking his head. 

“You’re drunk. Ainsley, you...you really hurt me. I can’t just...forgive you, because you’re upset. I care about you, and if you need to stay here, you can, but—”

“No.” She stands up, swaying a little, and looks around. “No. No, I don’t...need you. I don’t need this. I need…”

Malcolm. Her mother. She’s...not really sure, but it isn’t here. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” she says, and Jin stays where he is, looking at the floor. 

“Ains—”

“I’m sorry.” 

And with that, she leaves, tears streaming down her face again, if they ever stopped.

**x**

Jessica doesn’t have many pictures of Malcolm as a child. Most had had Martin in them, because Malcolm had never left his side, and so she’d burned them with the rest of it all in her own way of coping with the arrest. Sometimes she wishes she’d just cut Malcolm out of them, put them somewhere safe, because it’s the only time she remembers seeing him really, truly happy. 

Those, and the one she’s holding now, sitting at the table with a glass of whiskey. The one that shows him smiling, just a little, wrapped in a hug between Gil and his wife.

He hadn't been happy here. And it was never entirely Martin's fault. She has her own guilt. She'd chose to drink, instead of be there when her children needed her most. She still can't imagine she could have gotten through it any other way. The overwhelming horror, the disgust, the _fear_ of her own home, the trauma Malcolm had ended up with. 

But Gil had been there, for Malcolm at least. And therefore Malcolm had been around to be there for Ainsley. And she's forever grateful to the man, and Jackie, for that. It had taken nearly a year for Malcolm to speak again, and she knows she owes it all to them, still remembers Jackie calling her on the phone and _sobbing_ as she told Jessica that Malcolm had said _hi_ to her for the first time.

Jessica knows, more than anything, she should have been there. And the guilt stabs at her now, a pain no amount of alcohol can help, as she wonders if she'll ever see him again.

The door opens, and she looks up as Ainsley staggers in, clinging to the doorway like it's the only thing keeping her on her feet. 

"Oh, Ainsley," she says, coming to take her arm.

She doesn't expect her daughter to hug her so tightly, to start to sob so _loudly,_ to grind out the word, “ _Mom_ —” so brokenly.

Jessica hasn't seen Ainsley really cry since she was little. She's shown nothing but strength, determination, in the face of everything.

But losing Malcolm has left her mask weakened. Every day has only been harder for them all. And now, she's completely coming apart, and Jessica doesn't know what to do but hold her close.

"Oh, Ainsley. My darling." 

"I miss him," she whimpers. "I miss him, I can't...I can't…"

"I know. Oh, love. I know. So do I." Jessica closes her eyes. They burn with tears of their own, and then Ainsley's knees buckle, and she has to catch her.

It's not too difficult to get her to the couch, to lay her down and tuck her in just like when she was a child. Jessica strokes her hair, sits beside her, and Ainsley curls against her, head in Jessica's lap.

“Mom,” she says again. “Mom, he’s…”

"My sweet girl," Jessica murmurs, cupping her cheek. "It's okay."

"It's not," Ainsley says. "It'll n-never be okay again. Not until...he's home."

She bites her lip, and nods. Holds her daughter just a little closer. "I know." 

"What if...what if—"

"He's alive," she says. "He is. I know he is. He’s strong. Your brother has been through so much...this won’t take him. He’s alive.”

"For how much longer?" Ainsley asks, and Jessica doesn't answer. 

She doesn't _know_ the answer, and she's scared to.

She just takes a breath, and starts to sing to her, very softly, like she used to.

Ainsley quiets down. Keeps sniffling, but doesn't cry anymore. 

She falls asleep, cradled in Jessica's arms. 

And Jessica keeps singing, to herself, because she knows it will be far too quiet if she doesn't. 

**x**

Gil feels like he's choking.

There's a cold, clenched fist in his chest, squeezing his heart, his lungs, and it _hurts._ It's been hurting worse every day that goes by, and there's been too many of them.

He glances up at the clock, and closes his eyes.

Sixteen. It's been sixteen days since anyone last saw Malcolm.

Maybe sixteen days since the last time anyone _would_ see Malcolm.

He downs the whiskey in his glass, pours another, and drinks that, too.

And then his gaze fixes on the frame nearest to his chair. Of Jackie, and him, and Malcolm. The smallest smile on Malcolm's face. They'd set the timer, in hopes of getting something for the holidays, and then he'd heard Malcolm let out a giggle, felt him squirm in their arms just as the shutter snapped.

_'Ah-hah!'_

_'Did you just...tickle him?'_

Malcolm, burying his face in Gil's shoulder and giggling again, maybe in embarrassment. 

_'I don't give up easily. Do I, Malcolm? Huh? Nope. Told you I'd make him smile. Gotta trust me more.'_

"Don't…" he says quietly, and then looks up. He doesn't know, entirely, if he believes in God, or if he would pray to Him either way, because anyone who could take his sweet, beautiful Jackie away from him is no one he wants anything to do with.

But that never stopped him from begging for her life, and it wouldn't stop him now.

"Not him," he says. "Not him. You can't have him, too. Please don’t."

His temper snaps at the very idea, and he slams the glass down on the table and shouts, "You _can't!"_ as if, if he yells it loud enough, it’ll be heard better. As if he didn’t scream and break his fair share of glasses and bottles when it came to losing her, only to never change a thing.

The frame wobbles. His instincts are slowed, and he can't stop it from falling at his feet, can only stare down at it as he hears the glass shatters. 

" _No,_ " he gasps, snatching it up, pulling the photograph out and scanning it for damage.

It's just a copy. The original is perfectly safe in a box upstairs, along with the rest of the most important photos in his life. He would never let them see the light for so long, never risk damage like this. They're far too valuable, the only things he has.

It's a _copy_. He can print out a hundred more, all that look the exact same.

But he still runs his finger over a chip in the ink like it matters, like he's destroyed the only version he'll ever have.

And the line is right over Malcolm. 

Malcolm, who Gil's lost an uncountable amount of sleep over as he still desperately searches for clues, for _anything._

Malcolm, whose father, the only person who might have any knowledge of where he could be, has still refused to speak with the police.

Malcolm, who he might lose. Just like Jackie. Just like _everyone._

He misses her. He misses her so much. He misses _Malcolm._

He sinks to the floor, holding the photo to his heaving chest. 

“Please don’t. Please.”

He sits there for a moment. Maybe waiting for an answer. Waiting for anything.

He gets nothing. The empty house stays as quiet as ever.

And then he starts to cry, and it’s not so quiet anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...maybe not happy...( ꈍᴗꈍ)
> 
> Also people have been asking if I have a Tumblr, I do! My whump blog is [asmolwhumper](https://asmolwhumper.tumblr.com/) and it has link to my main there if you want, pweez come send me whumpy prompts (ʘᴗʘ✿)


	14. Whatever It Takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (◕ᴗ◕✿)
> 
> Kind of general warning for just...the most casual thoughts and talk of murder and torture throughout this all. Nbd. Just another day in the life. You know.

Sitting quietly, his hands in his lap, his eyes are starting to droop again.

Another sleepless night. More weight added to the exhaustion always pulling him down.

But he tries not to show it. He can't. That's not allowed. So he blinks hard, tries to find something to focus on. A spider crawls across the floor, and he watches it, his head involuntarily lolling a bit to the side until—

A foot kicks out at him, and he grunts in pain, scooting back.

"Did you hear me? _Wrench._ "

He rubs his eyes, reaches into the toolbox by his side, and holds one out to the hand impatiently making a grabbing gesture. It yanks the tool from his, and then disappears back under the car.

"Useless idiot."

He says nothing. He usually doesn't. There's no point. He'll be hurt if he's silent, but he'll be hurt far worse if he speaks. 

He wants _to_ hurt, for once. 

He really, _really_ wants to hurt.

There's an especially painful ring of bruising on his ankle, and he rubs it gently with scabbed, raw fingers. It's often there, because no matter how hard he tries to stay calm, he can only handle being locked up and away for so long before he struggles, before he claws at the wood and screams and pleads. But it'd been _too_ long this time. Nearing two days. And nothing but another savage beating had been waiting for him when he got out.

His lip curls up in anger. It pulls the split in the corner of his mouth, the reason, along with a bruised eye, that he can't go back to school yet. Not that they would care. They hadn't yet. Child services came and went, didn't believe a word he'd said, and he'd nearly paid for it with his life. So he didn't dare talk about it again.

He wants to beat the man to death with his own hammer. He wants to feel the blood on his hands, a final confirmation that it's _over_. No more abuse. No more closet. No more. _No more._

He sees the spider again, crawling over the old jack holding the car up.

_Weak_ , the man calls him. And perhaps he is. 

But he's not stupid. He wouldn't use uneven ground to work on. He wouldn't have left the garage just long enough that anyone could reach in and release the emergency break. He wouldn't have decided to only chock one tire, instead of two.

And it really doesn't take much strength at all to push the second wheel into motion.

He stands. He's not allowed to get up, not unless he's been told to. He's not allowed to do anything but _breathe_ unless he's been told to.

But that crunch had sounded promising, and there's a lot of warm, beautiful blood pooling out into the concrete. So he figures the man probably isn't going to be telling him to do things anymore.

With the first genuine smile he can ever remember spreading across his face, John works up a few tears and runs out of the garage.

**x**

Working at this hell-hole of a hospital isn’t where John thought he’d end up, especially with how good things had been going. He’d been praying, and so far, God had answered him. He’d graduated, only one year late. His grandmother didn’t lay a hand on him now, but, well...that was probably because she couldn’t see him. Just a bit of chemical engineering, dripped into her eye-drops. He hadn’t even had to kill her. He isn't sure she even knew what really caused it, let alone _who._ She'd said it must have been God's will, to make her stronger.

Really, he'd been so afraid she would start to lock him away, too, to honor the fucker's memory, that he hadn't been able to sleep. And after an entire lifetime of being deprived of it, he really, _really_ just needed to sleep. Now he could.

She was nicer now, too. Maybe because she knew she needed him to take care of her. And he did, even though she'd done nothing but watch in approval while he was beaten into the ground, and slapped him if he ever so much as breathed too loudly in church, and told her husband how _bad_ he'd been whenever he made a mistake, when he needed to be punished.

He didn't like her. He'd _love_ to kill her. But he'd needed her money. He'd needed somewhere to live while he worked odd jobs for years to try and save up enough to get the _fuck out._

And despite finally managing it, _barely,_ he isn't happy. He doesn't think he ever will be. Twenty-three years of misery, and he doesn't expect it to change now. As shit as his life is, living paycheck to paycheck, at least he isn't in that house anymore, trying to rest in the same room of the closet he'd been held prisoner in.

“Move your ass, Watkins, or I’m writing you up.”

John smiles, pulling himself to his feet, and looks at the lead on duty. He doesn’t like him. _Davis._ He’d like Davis better if he was dead. Mostly, he'd like everyone better if they were dead. If he could pull out their innards while they watched, and drink in the fear on their faces before the life faded from their eyes.

But he can’t say that. So instead he asks, “I’m not allowed to sit?” 

“Sure you _can,_ ” Davis says, like he’s talking to a child, loud enough it gains the attention of two nurses talking nearby. “On your _break_. It’s not your _break_. You’re behind. You’ve got three rooms to clean! Go! Clean the cardiology OR first, we have another scheduled in like an _hour._ Come on!”

“Of course,” John says, and then, as Davis passes, he breathes, “ _Fucker._ ”

He didn’t _really_ want it to be heard. And he doesn’t think it really was. But Davis whirls around, demands, _“What was that?_ ” with a sudden step back towards him, and something deeply buried in John springs to the forefront of his mind. His back hits the wall, and he gasps for air, and he has his hand out to block a blow he momentarily doesn't know isn’t going to come. 

Davis looks at him like he’s entirely lost his mind, like he’s _pathetic,_ and John exhales, pulls away, grabs onto his cart to hide that he’s trembling. “Nothing.”

“Good,” Davis says, awkwardly. “Just get it done.”

He will. He always does. As much as he hates it, it’s this, or the streets. He won't go back to that house. He just won't.

“Freak,” he hears one of the nurses say as he passes, and he imagines slitting her throat. Fucking _whore_. She’s nothing. She’d _respect_ him, they _all_ would, if he decided to come in with his revolver. No...not that old thing. Pointless. Not even that many bullets. He’d have to buy something much more special for the occasion. He’d kill them. Slowly. He’d shoot their legs, their arms. He’d watch them bleed out on the floor, stand over them and _step_ on their wounds. He’d listen to them scream, choke, _die._

He’d show them what a freak he is. And he’d _love_ it.

But he _can't._ So he just kicks open the door to the OR, shoves his cart inside, and yells, " _Fuck!”_

“Oh,” says the man in the corner, and John backpedals so fast he hits one of the carts of surgical tools and nearly topples over.

“Fuck,” he says again, and the man nods, tossing his gloves into the biohazard container in the corner. 

“Right. I got that the first time. Sorry to startle you.”

John hasn’t seen this man before. It’s not unusual, he supposes; he keeps his head down, does his job, just wants to go _home._ But there’s something he finds fascinating about this one, the way he’s looking at John differently than the others. Not like he’s worthless, like he’s not even good enough for a second’s glance, but...like he’s just another person. 

“I just clean,” he says, like he’s explaining _why_ he means nothing, and the man raises a brow. 

“That’s good to know,” he says, gesturing to the floor. “Lot of blood here...and there.”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls on his gloves and starts gathering up the dressing on the surgical table to toss out. 

“Always so much of it,” the man murmurs, rounding him, and John shrugs, keeps the man in his sight as he throws the trash into the orange bin.

“I’ve seen you around...”

“I _work_ here,” John says, kicking his cart forward and squatting down to grab cleaning supplies from it. 

“Me, too, for the next two months! It’s a lovely little hospital, from what I’ve seen. Oh, how rude of me. I’m sorry. I’m Dr. Martin Whitly.”

John stops, suddenly sweating. _This_ was Dr. Whitly? He’d heard talk about him, about how incredible he was...and John thinks about how many _people_ he’s cut into.

When he can, when he’s alone, sometimes he marvels at the blood before he cleans. There _is_ always so much of it, and sometimes other things he can touch, and this man gets to see it, to _cause_ it, as his _job._

A lot more interested, he stands back up, looking the man over. Why was someone so _important_ bothering with him? “Ah...John.”

“John,” Dr. Whitly repeats, softly, and John feels a little weak. 

“You’re a man of few words, John. It’s fascinating. Don’t think it brings about many _friends_ in this line of work...I’ve heard some...rather unkind things about you, from the others.”

John scoffs. So the man just wants to make fun of him, just like the rest of them. That’s fine. He just wants to go home. Four more hours, and he can eat some cold soup from the gas station with the last of his money and _sleep._

He snatches what he needs off the cart and pours it onto the floor, starts mopping up the blood spatters before he can even look at the pattern. Such a damn shame. It’s always so—

“Interesting, isn’t it? The way it falls?” 

John freezes this time, stuck in place for a moment before he shakes off the shock and looks up to where Dr. Whitly is peering over his shoulder. “What?”

“The blood,” Dr. Whitly says, and John just _knows_ he’s being fucked with now. Probably wasn’t even the real Dr. Whitly, probably someone those bastards had set up to the task of getting something else to call him a freak over.

“No,” he says quickly, and then, because he feels he _has_ to, adds, “You think so?”

“Well, I have to, being around it so much. There was a bit of a complication this time...we had to get in a transfusion...absolute mess. Precision isn’t always as precise as I’d like.”

“Did they die?” 

“My patient? God, no. I’m fantastic.”

John wants to know about the ones that _have,_ he wants to know more about how it feels to slice into someone and get _applauded_ for it, and then the door knocks open and Davis shouts, “Watkins!”

John flinches. The tone this bastard always uses just _gets_ to him. He hasn’t been yelled at like that since he was a child, and it makes him downright fucking _homicidal._

“You’re not _cleaning!_ You’re just fucking _standing_ there! God, you’re _useless—”_

_'Useless little sinner, you’re nothing—'_

“—and I’m this close to firing your ass! What are you _doing?_ Stop acting like I’m going to beat you! I’m tired of it!”

Dr. Whitly moves behind him, and John flinches again, harder, away from them as he grabs for the mop, clings to it and shivers.

Davis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Whitly, I’m _sorry,_ I should have sent someone _capable._ This isn’t a good first impression. You can trust we’ll make it up to you.”

“I think he was doing a fine job,” Dr. Whitly says. “You, on the other hand...how often do you berate your workers like this? That’s something I didn’t expect.” 

Davis shuts up. John stares at him, then at Dr. Whitly.

“I’m sorry,” Davis replies, slowly, uncertainly, and Dr. Whitly gestures at the door. 

“That’ll be all.” 

And to John’s amazement, Davis _leaves._ He just...goes, without another word.

“How rude,” Dr. Whitly says, and then turns back to John. “I don’t have long to chat, and really, this _does_ need to be cleaned, but...I think we would have a lot to talk about, given the time.”

“Thank you,” John finally manages, “I, uh...I…talk?”

“Yes. You looked...curious. I’d be happy to answer any questions you have. Would you like that?”

John’s mouth isn’t forming words correctly, or maybe it’s his brain, because all he can do is nod, stupidly, and then mutter, “I...uh, I’m…”

And then Dr. Whitly takes the mop from him, reaches out, and grips John's chin between his thumb and index finger. 

John gasps. That’s _not_ what he expected to happen, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t think he can. He doesn’t _want_ to, because he’s never been _touched_ like this before.

"I won't hurt you," Dr. Whitly says, so soothingly, sending shivers up and down John’s spine. "You've been hurt enough, haven't you? Underappreciated. _Wronged._ "

"I don't know—" John starts, and then Dr. Whitly smiles, and he can't finish.

"I can see it. I think we have a lot in common. Pasts...interests...maybe even hobbies."

John stares at him, dumbfounded. "...O-oh?"

Dr. Whitly nods, hums. “Would you like to kill that man, John Watkins?”

Nervously, John laughs. 

Dr. Whitly doesn’t. 

He’s _serious._

And so after a moment, John breathes out, “ _Yeah_.”

“I thought as much.” He releases him, and John staggers, grabs onto the table to steady himself as he shakes. 

“We should talk,” Dr. Whitly goes on, backing up. He tilts his head, looks at John almost _fondly,_ and then pushes his cart towards him. 

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you,”

John watches the man go, catching his breath.

What the _hell_ had just happened?

He thinks about how he's been praying for things to start changing, and he wonders. 

But no. That's...not how it worked, right? God wouldn't have just sent him…some sort of _angel,_ right?

He shakes himself. And he cleans quickly, for the doctor, _not_ Davis.

A few days pass before he finds a folded paper slipped inside his locker, finds a number and an address and a time to go there.

When his shift ends at midnight, he takes the subway and walks a while, and sits on the curb outside for the next two hours.

"John?"

He looks up as Dr. Whitly closes the door of a taxi he never heard pull up, and doesn’t understand why the man looks so _confused_ to see him.

"How long have you been sitting here?" 

John frowns. "You told me to come here. Since one, I think." 

"It’s three. You must be freezing. I assumed you'd wait in your car."

"I don't _have_ a car. I barely have a home."

"Oh. My apologies. Well—"

"Dr. Whitly—"

“ _Martin_ , please.”

“M...Martin,” John says, scratching at his head, a bit awkwardly. “Okay. What are we doing here?”

“Well, this is my house. I’d like to show you something. Come on." 

John stands too quickly. His vision blacks out for a moment, and he pitches to the side, only kept on his feet as Martin reaches out to grab his arm.

"Oh…" he mutters, breathing hard, and Martin squeezes.

“What was that?”

John shakes his head, pulls away, and clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Martin looks him over, doubtfully, and then hums. “When was the last time you had a good meal, John?”

John has no idea. Never, maybe. And as embarrassing as it is to look so weak, to admit how _damn broke_ he is to someone he just met and already admires, he hasn't eaten anything at _all_ in two days now, and it's really starting to make him sick. 

But he's gone longer. He'll survive. He always has. So he simply shrugs and says, “I just...I got dizzy. I'm fine. I get paid Friday." 

"That's two days away. You're about to faint. No, no. That won't do."

John frowns, wondering if he wasn't clear enough the first time. "I...I don't have any _money_."

"I didn't ask for your money, did I? No. I make more than enough."

John hates how desperate he sounds as he asks, “Really?”

“Oh, yes. We're colleagues now, dear John. Friends, if you allow it. I don't expect you've had many of those, hmm?"

Anyone else, and he'd want to kill them for saying that to him. But Martin is so _kind_ about it. It still doesn't sound like he's making fun of him. "Not really, no."

"Early childhood trauma makes living rather difficult, doesn't it?” 

John flinches. He looks Martin up and down, defensively, and Martin raises a hand as if to calm him.

“Relax. It wasn’t an attack. I can relate, is all. Let's talk over a bit of food, shall we? My treat. Come."

John is fairly sure he'd follow the man anywhere at this point. His heart thuds unlike it ever has, and he feels _something_ , something that isn't the awful emptiness that's consumed him his entire life.

He eats like he hasn't _ever,_ and nearly _cries_ while thanking the man. Martin looks delighted, just from making John happy, and then offers to take _care_ of him. To give him the money he needs to properly feed himself, to buy a new pair of clothes.

All that's asked of John in return is to listen to him. To keep asking questions. To admire his work and drawings down in his office, when Martin shows it to him on their second meeting. To talk with him about it all. And eventually, after about a month, to let Martin _teach_ him. 

"Teach me?" he asks, and Martin smiles.

"Yes. I think we've talked enough, haven't we? Hands on learning is always better. Do you...understand, what I'm offering?"

John feels a smirk inch its way onto his mouth.

"I want him," he says. 

He doesn't even need to say the name. Martin doesn't ask him to.

"Of course. I'd like to make your first real lesson as memorable as possible, after all. Now, the first and most important thing is showing confidence. You don’t think they’d expect _me_ of all people, do you? No. But you have a bit of trouble with that. And I won't be here to protect you at the end of the month. So let me explain…"

Davis goes missing half a month later, just as Dr. Whitly's rotation is ending. 

But they don't think about him. And they don't think about John. 

Because he's a fast learner, and he's got an incredible man to teach him.

**x**

Martin looks even more irritated than when he left as he comes back down into the basement, a half hour or so after carrying his too-curious son upstairs.

"Thought I told you stay out of his sight," he says, and John shifts in the chair he's taken up in opposite Martin's desk.

"I didn't know he saw me," he says, _lies,_ and then looks away when Martin gives him a knowing glare. "Sorry. But you should introduce us. We might be friends."

Martin purses his lips, hums, and then shakes his head, sitting back down at his desk. "No. He's still too young. Soon, but not yet."

"Almost seven, isn't he?"

"Not _yet,_ " Martin says, in the stern tone he knows shuts John right up. "He's learning just fine. But I still want him to enjoy being a child. I never got that. Neither did you. Don't you wish you did?"

John shrugs a shoulder, nonchalantly. He can't really miss what he never had, can he? 

" _Don't_ you?"

"Maybe," he replies. "I'd like to not have been in a closet the whole time."

Martin is silent, and John realizes this is the first time he's let that detail slip.

"A closet," Martin says.

He bites his lip. He's given Martin some things, and Martin has figured out others. But he's never _talked_ about it before, not really. He wonders if it would make it hurt less. 

"When he wasn't beating me into the floor, yeah. There was a chain...I'd be in there so _long_ …"

He shakes himself. Tries to ignore the fear creeping up into his body. It’s been so many years, so _many._ It doesn’t matter anymore. It just doesn’t. "It's nothing."

"That's not nothing," Martin replies, showing a unique kind of softness, the one he uses with his son. "I'm sorry, John. I've told you my father beat me, as well, but never much else. Would you like me to? To talk with you?”

"I don't know," John murmurs, subtly swiping one hand over his eyes. "Will it make it better?"

Martin smiles, almost sadly. "You know it won't. But killing him did, didn't it? Made it all better."

John sighs, remembers the moment fondly. "Yes," he hums. "Did you kill yours?" 

"Better. I got to watch him waste away to nothing from cancer. That was truly my favorite sight. The way he lost the strength to get up, much less hurt me. You’re my friend, John. I care for you. And if yours wasn’t already dead, I would have brought him here, and we could have killed him together.”

That _almost_ makes him feel better, too. “It was bad. I’d rather have had—"

He bites his tongue, and Martin raises a brow. 

"Rather have had what, dear John?" 

_You,_ John doesn't say, because it's not for Martin to know. Martin _can't_ know. John shouldn't be jealous over a stupid child, even if he didn't know how lucky he was.

"This," he says instead. "Someone to teach me. Someone who _cared._ "

"Well, you have _me_ now," Martin says, flashing one of his charming grins, and John pushes down the same disgusting thoughts that come up whenever he sees it, only stronger through the years.

"Thank God," he says, and means it with everything in him.

**x**

"You're unusually distracted today."

John grunts. He glances over at Martin as he sits at the table, drawing, but not for too long. He'd done that earlier, and had become uncomfortably captivated by the way the fire is flickering light and shadows onto Martin’s face, stared at him until Martin himself had asked what he wanted.

Nothing good. He’s never wanted anything good.

“I’m tired,” John replies, rubbing at his eyes, adjusting the pillow behind him as he lays on the couch and then crossing his arms. “It’s a long drive.” 

“Oh, yes. But you’ve made it a hundred times. What’s different tonight, hmm? Tell me. I’ll get it out of you one way or another. You know I will.” 

“Let it _go,_ ” John mutters, turning onto his other side. But he doesn’t give the orders. Martin does. And Martin doesn’t _like_ being given orders. He hears Martin close his sketchbook and sigh, and can't help but cringe. 

Martin would never _hurt_ him, he doesn't think; not really. But Martin also has no qualms about reminding him who's in charge, and John doesn’t really think he can handle that kind of proximity right now, not with what he’s been thinking about doing. Martin needs to stay the fuck _away_ from him.

But he doesn’t. Of _course_ he doesn’t. He comes over, looks down at John, and says, “Hmm?” like he misheard before.

“Sorry,” John says quickly, keeping his eyes closed, “it’s _nothing._ I just—”

“Look at me. Sit up.”

John swallows hard, and obeys. Martin frowns at him, looking him over, and then sits beside him. Just keeps fucking making it _worse._

“You look ill. You can always go home, if you’d prefer we do this another day. I wouldn’t fault you."

“No. It’s not that. It’s...Martin, _stop._ Just let me be.” He stands, and Martin follows, grabs his wrist. 

“I _said_ —”

John turns around, ready to really go off, to say something he knows will piss Martin off beyond what he has before, to get him to fucking _leave him alone—_

And then instead John leans forward and kisses him. And he _likes_ it, far too much.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters as he realizes what he's doing, stumbling away. Oh, _no._ Sinner, _sinner,_ fuck, _sinner, impure, disgusting, hellbound—_ “Oh, fuck. _Fuck,_ Martin, I didn’t—”

“Oh,” Martin says quietly, stunned, and John grabs at his hair and backs up even further.

“I’ll leave. I’ll go. Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It felt like you did,” Martin replies, and John wants to _die,_ sputtering out more apologies.

“I thought it might be something like that,” Martin goes on, sitting back on the couch, and John leans over the table, hits his head against it and groans. Martin had _known?_ Martin had known how _sick_ he was becoming over the years and still decided to keep mentoring him?

“I’m a man of _God,_ ” John says, looking back at him finally, and Martin squints at him. 

“... _What?_ ”

“I’m not... _that_. I’m not...I don't even...I just..." He gestures helplessly. He doesn't know how to explain that it's _only Martin_ he wants, that he's never wanted _anyone,_ not this strongly. He wants Martin to _claim him_ and be _his_ and also has no _idea_ what he wants—he can only think of _Martin,_ of doing what Martin wants him to, every second of the fucking day, and it's _killing_ him, and he doesn't know what to _do—_

"I’m grateful for you," he finally chokes out. "That’s it.” 

Martin nods, amicably. “That’s it. Of course. It isn’t _God,_ though. You know I have a wife, John, whom I love. And two beautiful children. So that _has_ to be it, do you understand?”

John nods. He feels sick. 

“You’re my closest friend. But if more than what I’ve been giving you is what you desire, that won’t be happening. It can't. Malcolm’s getting older, he’s starting to understand more, and I have to be there for him. He can start coming along to these, and the _last_ thing I would let him see is—”

"I can be _more_ than him," John blurts out. "I won't disappoint you! He w—"

"John," Martin warns. "Choose your next words _carefully_."

John clenches his teeth, and doesn't speak at all for a moment. That stupid child. That _stupid_ child. Why couldn't Martin see that _he_ would always be better? 

But he can't say that. So instead he shakes his head, and breathes out hard, and says, "I just want you to _appreciate_ me."

Martin looks him over, surveying him the way they do their victims, deciding if they're _worth_ it or not, and it _hurts._

"I do appreciate you. More than you know, apparently."

"You never _tell_ me," he says, and Martin raises a brow. 

"You...want me to _praise_ you? Like I do Malcolm? Win you over with hot chocolate and a new toy? Read you a bedtime story?" 

"No. Fuck you," John says, and Martin stands up, quick enough John trips as he steps back. 

"Come here."

John regards him with uncertainty. "Why?"

Martin points to the floor before him, and John carefully approaches. 

"I didn't mean—" he starts, and then stops when Martin grabs ahold of his throat, just enough to make him breathe harder. 

"I," Martin says, " _appreciate_ you. You're a smart man. You're my partner. My _friend._ Malcolm does not replace you, but you will not replace him. I'd like it very much if you would stop acting as if you’re both the same age. Okay?”

John nods slightly, and Martin squeezes just a little harder, until he coughs out, " _Yes_."

"Good. And I'd like an apology, for talking to me like that." 

"I'm sorry," John says, and then gasps as he's released. Martin smiles at him, bright as ever, and pats him on the back. John wants him to touch _more_ —

He shakes his head. Clears it best he can. It can't happen. It won't. And that's for the best, even if it hurts him so deeply, so _painfully,_ that he's surprised he can keep a straight face. Martin should be his, his, _his—_

"Wonderful,” Martin says, going to pull open the door to the cellar. "Now, I think our guest should be about to wake up. Let's go greet her, shall we? We've got a lot to learn tonight."

John breathes in deeply, nods, and follows.

**x**

Malcolm is nine now. It his birthday, and Martin _invites_ John. Tells him that it's time Malcolm meets him.

John isn't up for children. They're disgusting little creatures, dirty and loud and _weak_. So he shows up much later after everyone has gone home, knocks on the door, and holds out a wrapped gift to Martin's wife as she opens it.

"Oh, hello," she says, kindly. 

He’s seen her before, in passing, but never this clearly. Martin’s never let him just... _be_ here before, unless they’re down in the basement.

So she’s the reason. She’s why he can’t have Martin to himself. Fascinating. He probably shouldn’t think about killing her, but he does. Oh, he _does_. She’s beautiful, though. He’ll give Martin that. He’d probably want to lay with her before he slit her throat. And then Martin would be his. _His._ And he would be Martin's. Finally. Just like how it's meant to be. Otherwise, God wouldn't have gifted him with Martin's presence in the first place.

He forces a smile, ignoring the prickle of cold sweat that breaks out on the back of his neck. "I'm Martin's...friend.”

“John!” Martin calls from behind her, coming to wrap his arm around the woman, and John sets his jaw, tries to keep steady. How _dare_ he, right in front of him, _showing off, teasing_ him.

“I didn’t know…” He coughs and shakes the gift. “It’s a car. He likes cars, right?”

“All boys like cars,” she says. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Afraid you missed the party,” Martin adds, but John knows that’s nothing less than what was expected of him. “There’s still cake, though. This is Jessica, my beautiful wife, if you remember. Come. You can give it to him before he’s too tired.”

John moves past her, clenches his hand as his fingers twitch, nearly crushes the damn box, following Martin to one of the endless rooms where the boy is playing a little handheld game as he sits against the couch. 

"And _this_ ," Martin says, picking his son up to rest on his hip, and Malcolm happily nuzzles against him, game forgotten. Always so _clingy._ John wonders why Martin encourages it.

"This is my Malcolm. Pride and joy that he is." He touches Malcolm's nose, and then points at John.

"That's John. He's my very good friend. Can you say hi?"

Malcolm looks up at John with bright blue, curious eyes. For a moment, John thinks he might recognize him from that night. Instead, Malcolm just gives a shy little smile and says, "Hi."

John smiles, just a bit more genuinely, and produces the gift. "I heard it was your birthday…"

It's probably the first time the boy _willingly_ gets down out of his father's arms, excited as he tears into it. He takes out a new matchbox car, bright red, and grins. "Cool! Thank you!" 

"'Course, kiddo," he says. "I think that one's pretty rare. That's...what the guy at the store told me, anyway." He shrugs at Martin, who laughs.

"He's got so many. He'll be richer than all of us in twenty years, selling them."

"Love?" Jessica calls from the other room, and Martin holds up a finger to John, tells him he'll be right back.

John isn't entirely sure what he's meant to be doing. Should he leave? Without Martin giving him explicit instructions, he feels a little lost.

Awkwardly, he just stands there. And then Malcolm runs the car over his shoe and giggles, looking up at him. 

"This one's my favorite, I think," he says, and John takes a step back, raising his brow.

"Oh yeah? Why’s that?"

"Red's my favorite color!"

That has John snickering, just a bit. How _fitting._ "Mine, too." 

"Really?" Malcolm asks, sitting up. "It's a pretty color. But sometimes my favorite is pink. Or blue. Or green. I like a lot of things. Dogs, and sometimes my sister. I don't like broccoli, though. It tastes bad.”

John takes a seat on the couch behind him. "You like your dad, too, don't you?"

"I love him!" Malcolm gasps. "I love him more than anything. He teaches me so much cool stuff!"

"He teaches me, too," John replies. "Things from his books, right?"

Malcolm nods. "Uh-huh. I can read a lot of the words in there now. Daddy says I'm really smart." 

_Hmm_. Of course he does. Martin's little _pride and joy_ gets all the compliments he wants. John wonders if the kid even appreciates them. He's got an odd little charm about him, though. John doesn't know what it is. He can be jealous, but he can't be all that angry. Not looking down at this little... _thing._ He's cute, or something. John doesn't want to kill him, and that's a very weird feeling.

"He's probably right,” John says. _Probably._ “He's the smartest man I know, so he's the best teacher for you."

" _Thank_ you," Martin says as he returns, and John stands up. He expects to be reprimanded, but instead Martin just hands him a beer. John stares at it for a moment, stunned, and Martin knocks it with his own and takes a drink, like he thinks John doesn’t know how. “Sit, huh? Relax.” 

John sits, but stays tense, and Martin sets his bottle down on the side table to bend to Malcolm’s level.

"Think it's time to get ready for bed, my boy, isn’t it?” 

Malcolm sighs dramatically, sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. "Not even two more minutes? _One_ more? It's my _birthday._ "

Martin smiles, rolling his eyes. "You can play tomorrow. Come on. Up, up. I'll be up in a bit to tuck you in, okay?"

" _Okay_ ," Malcolm finally says, tilting his cheek up, and Martin gives it a kiss, watching him in amusement as he groans and sluggishly starts up the stairs as if his very existence is just _so_ painful. 

"He's a good kid," John says, and Martin sits down—leaving one cushion between them—and nods. 

"I told you. He's just...perfect. He's _perfect."_

Well, John wouldn't go _that_ far. "Why am I here?" he asks. "Like... _here?_ Is he...ready?"

"Not quite yet," Martin replies, and then grins at him.

"But soon. Very soon, John. I just have a feeling."

**x**

His phone rings, pulling him out of a deep sleep. It takes a minute for him to gather himself, and then John finally answers, "Hel...lo?" 

"He knows."

John rubs his eyes and sits up, trying to process. "...What?"

" _Malcolm._ He found her. The girl."

"Shit," John says. "What happened?" 

"He screamed. I drugged him. The chloroform. It's all I had. I told him not to go _snooping_ through my _shit,_ the little _brat—"_

It's startling. John has never heard Martin speak ill of his son before. But he hears the doctor take a deep breath, calming himself.

"No. I can't fault him for his curiosity. I love that about him. Oh, I wasn't ready for this tonight, though.”

John can hear the sheer amount of stress in Martin’s voice, something he’s rarely known the man to actually show. This wasn't the plan, and Martin _hates_ when things don't go according to plan. “So...what now?”

“I told him he was dreaming, but...I don’t think he’ll believe it. Not this time. Poor thing was terrified. Oh, he wasn’t supposed to be afraid. His first should have been exciting. I need to get ahead of this. _We_ do. There's no choice. At least...at least the timing is good. Jessica and Ainsley leave in a few days. I'll keep him calm until then. So drive the car down, just like always. We'll pack and leave...and Malcolm will come with us.”

John bristles. He'd _known_ that eventually Malcolm would come along and ruin their times together, take away the only thing that John liked, the only time Martin paid his full attention to _John_ like he _should,_ but it doesn’t make it any less infuriating to know it’s happening already. He wants more time. He wants _more time._

But it's not John's choice. It's always been up to Martin. He should be grateful for the years he _has_ had, right? That _stupid_ fucking nosy little kid. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes. But we have to do this...gently. He’s still such a sensitive boy.”

“He’ll do fine,” John replies flatly, and Martin breathes in deep.

“I know,” he says. “He’s my boy. He’s going to make me proud.”

John really hopes he doesn't. He hopes Malcolm fails. Maybe then Martin will know. He'll _understand_ what John has been trying to tell him all along, that _he_ is better, the one deserving of all of Martin's praise.

Martin will see. He'll have to. He'll get it.

_John_ will make Martin proud. Whatever it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *inhales deeply* (◉‿◉) I am gay. And yes, my John is bisexual (like 99.9999% of every other character I write is) and simped for Martin like a mf but nothing I write ever would or will ever be to demonize gay people or put them in a bad light...or frame them all as murderers...they, of course, are not. 
> 
> _Me,_ tho, if I get a second comment about it 🔫👀


	15. Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing...The End...of both the hiatus and this story! (Although I have PLENTY of recovery planned...that also includes more whump, of course. I'm hoping no one gets bored of this fic after the episode airs…? Literally my worst fear atm...pls don't leave me...PLS…)
> 
> As such, the next 3-4 chapters, specifically 16, are going to be the climax, and the most disturbing, both in the sense of whump and torture, but also Malcolm's complete loss of grip on reality. So the warnings will be a bit more detailed, and probably more needed.
> 
> I'm excited...I hope you guys are too (ʘᴗʘ✿) ONWARDS.
> 
> TW for John continuing to be a terrifyingly creepy obsessive piece of shit who needs to die already, brief non-con touching that's considerably more sinister than last time, and fairly detailed symptoms of a psychotic break + suicidal thoughts. Also, you know...some torture to tie it all together.
> 
> Sorry, Malcolm… ｡◕‿◕｡

Standing above Malcolm as he lays on the ground, caught up in a feverish sleep, John can only think about how _nice_ the boy is to look at.

He'd expected Malcolm to still be awake, because he's been awake nearly the entire time, but it seems that's finally caught up to him. And for the best, because John finds he _really_ likes to just… _watch_ him, to take in every little movement he makes, every shuddering breath that comes and goes between slightly parted lips.

John kneels, sets the new switch he'd brought down, and gently touches Malcolm's mouth with a finger. He likes that there's no flinch away, no hand brought up to shield his face. Just perfect compliance. It would be nicer if it was like this all the time.

He traces Malcolm's lips, feels Malcolm's breath on his fingertips, and then moves his hand up to touch the rest of his face. Then down to his neck. He grabs Malcolm's throat in his hand, gently, and just feels it. How _easy_ it would be to crush it right now. Malcolm might not even know what was happening. He's so _tiny…_ John wouldn't even have to try.

But then, he can't. He can _think_ about doing it...can think about doing a _lot_ of things…but he can't do that. Not _any_ of it. That's not the plan. 

Malcolm is...so _helpless_ , though. Martin's beautiful prodigal son. John thinks he'd have an urge to claim complete ownership of anything that was so _his_ , but _Malcolm_...he's very special. John had hated him, for taking Martin from him. But now he thinks he understands. He wants to give all his attention to Malcolm, now, too. 

He squeezes, listens as Malcolm starts to gasp. He's always liked to hurt. Whenever Martin would allow him to have a turn with their... _patients,_ he took his time. He liked how they sounded, especially. That was the best part: relishing every noise he could get out of them. He can't remember having a favorite until Malcolm, but then...he's never had a more important mission. Sure, he was always meant to clean up, but Malcolm...he's different than the rest of them. Malcolm is the only one who can _change_. He's the only one who can become something _better._ And it'll be John who made it happen.

He'll have worked a _miracle._

He lessens the pressure, and smiles when still, Malcolm doesn't wake, just pants and groans and tilts his head to the side.

Martin _will_ be proud. Not of the process, no, but of the results. And John knows he's going to get them. 

"Please…" 

John pulls his hand away, but Malcolm's eyes stay closed. Another nightmare? He wonders what it's about. Him? Or maybe Martin? The boy is a _fool._ Scared of the best man John's ever known, like they didn't have the same blood, the same DNA. Like Martin would ever have _really_ hurt him. Martin loved him…more than he'd ever loved John.

His fingers twitch. He reaches down, takes his knife, and holds it under Malcolm's chin. Again, just because he _can_. 

He lightly runs the knife's tip down to Malcolm's collarbone, then over his shirt. He doesn't realize his other hand has come to rest on Malcolm's hip until Malcolm whimpers.

Of course. Where the idiot had _stabbed_ himself. He supposes he should really take the stitching out. He's already left them in too long. There's just been...so many other things to focus on.

Carefully, John edges the boy's shirt up. The wound isn't what he looks at first. Instead, he marvels at all the stripes of dark bruising across the pale skin, winding around to his back, up under where the fabric bunches together and John can't move it further. There's hardly a spot on him, John guesses, that doesn't look similar. And he's proud. Malcolm is pretty, and John has never quite been able to ignore that, but _now_...he looks like a work of art. John made those. He's an artist, just like Martin.

It's only a shame they won't last.

The wound looks... _bad._ It doesn't even seem to be entirely closed yet, and there's red and yellow crusting around the stitching. He should have been cleaning it. He _definitely_ shouldn't have hit it so hard that it had _stunned_ him how fast Malcolm passed out. 

He frowns. The mark is going to be permanent. And he's annoyed, because Malcolm gave it to himself. It isn't John's. _Malcolm_ isn't John's. Not yet. 

He cleans it, takes out most of the stitches, and redoes two of them, just to keep it together. It oozes, and that's _really_ not a good sign, and so he shoves a few outdated antibiotics down Malcolm's throat along with as much water as he can before Malcolm starts to gag. He hasn't been keeping the boy hydrated enough, either. As much as he wants Malcolm weakened, he's started to look like he's _dying_. And John doesn't want that. At least until the fever's gone; then John can take it all away again, if need be. 

He slathers cream over the wound, lays down a gauze pad, and securely tapes it in place. He does the same to his hand, and wraps it up tightly. Worst case scenario, he has to drive to the nearest town to get medicine. But if Malcolm just _behaves,_ like he always did with Martin, he can come upstairs, and he'll be warmer, will heal faster. 

But Malcolm's not a child anymore, and John isn't Martin. Much as he likes to believe he's half as good.

Malcolm will never be as good. Not even after John teaches him, and that's a bit of a shame. He's grown to _look_ like Martin, though. Like him, and yet different. Dare John say _better._ Martin had refused him, left him alone, _broken_ him with his absence. But Malcolm can't leave. Malcolm can't do a _ny_ of that. He'll break, and succumb, and he'll let John teach him. He's not as strong as Martin, not as clever. 

But he's pretty. He’s pretty, and John likes the idea of having him to look at forever. Likes it maybe a bit too much. Has started to feel a little _unhinged_ in the past days, because he can think of nothing else but _Malcolm,_ and he hasn’t had his thoughts so thoroughly and utterly fixated on something, some _one,_ since Martin. 

As much as Martin _should_ have been his, he never was. John could never make him his. 

But Malcolm already is. _Malcolm is._

He's only bruised, though. Not marked. Not yet _claimed._

He grips his knife again, and his breathing picks up.

Maybe he should change that.

He'll have to be careful, have to make sure he doesn't go too deep. The last thing Malcolm needs is to lose blood.

But he can do that. He's precise. He learned from the best. 

Watching Malcolm's face, John starts to unbutton the once blue, now dark red shirt. 

Malcolm doesn't move. As many times as John has been down here in the last weeks, Malcolm has never been so unresponsive. But he bets he can fix that.

He peels the shirt open. And faced with Malcolm's beautiful body as a canvas, John smiles. He just looks at first, admires. And then he touches, gently, runs his hands up and down and sighs.

And then he takes the blade, and makes a shallow cut. 

Malcolm gasps, and John bites his lip. _Fuck,_ he wants to make Malcolm scream. He wants to slice him open and watch him bleed.

But he can't. He won't. He doesn't know if he should even be doing _this,_ because it's _ruining_ him. He doesn't want to ruin Malcolm. Malcolm is _perfect_. And yet, John _does._ Because Malcolm is _his_ now. Not Martin's, not anyone's. _His._ And he _can._

He presses the knife at Malcolm's collarbone, right in the middle, and moves it down, makes a long red scratch down to his stomach. It doesn't draw blood, but John imagines it does. He imagines it beading out, soaking his hands, running in long, perfect trickles down Malcolm's chest. 

There's noticeable weight loss. John can outline every rib and ridge of bone like he couldn't the first time Malcolm had been bare, and he thinks about how blood would pool in the concave above that collarbone, his favorite. Maybe Malcolm should stay like this, even when he's good. Maybe he should be there just for John to look at as much as to help him. He's John's now. And _John_ will decide what's best for him.

He scratches down the line again, and then presses too hard. Red comes to the surface, and John can't stop himself from making another cut beside it, and then another, even deeper.

Malcolm whines, starting to writhe, and John easily holds him still. "Ssh," he purrs, going up to Malcolm's collar again and slicing at it much too hard.

Malcolm flinches, and then finally cracks his eyes open. They're alarmingly glassy, and John's not sure he's really awake until he hears a mumble of, "Dad…st...stop…"

John scoffs. As if Martin would have ever hurt him. Ridiculous. He almost _wishes_ Martin was here, wishes he would see the way John's trying to _help_ and leave him to it, be _happy_ about it. It's a _gift._

"Daddy's not here," he says, and puts the knife to Malcolm's mouth, picks off one of the scabs there and loves the noise it elicits. "He won't save you this time. Shouldn't have back then, either. He should have let me do what I had to."

Malcolm groans softly, his head lolling to the side again, and John nicks under his chin.

"Stay awake."

Shuddering, Malcolm raises one hand up a bit, then lets it fall back down to the floor. "I…I…"

"No. Don't talk. I just want you to feel me." John pushes the knife down at the dip under his neck, and digs it down, pulls it towards him and leaves a long gash between Malcolm's clavicles. 

Malcolm cries out, weakly, and John watches the blood flow from it, mesmerized. 

"You're so pretty," he says finally, stroking his fingers down, leaving smeared prints of red. "So pretty, little Malcolm. I'm sorry. I just can't _help_ myself. Oh, you look so _good_ when you bleed, do you know that? Better than any of the others. And there were _so_ many others."

"I...no," Malcolm murmurs, blinking hard. "G…Gil…? No, I…" He looks at John, and then around the room. His eyes widen, a little more alert, and his hands start to shake violently. "No...n-no, wait, _no..._ I...I was…aah...G-Gil? Where…?"

John looks him over and then grins, sticking the blade's tip against one of his ribs to quiet him. "Did you think he was here, little Malcolm? It's still just me. It'll _always_ just be me." 

"N...no," Malcolm says, and then repeats it again, much louder, _much_ more afraid. He jerks on his hand, pulls the chain taut, and then whimpers. "Gil—no—h- _help me_ —"

John slaps his hand down over Malcolm's mouth. "If you're screaming, I want it to be in _pain,"_ he says, and then slides the blade back into that deepest wound and cuts down over it again. Malcolm wails, and John releases him, nodding.

"Just like that...very good."

Malcolm wildly scans the cellar again, like he really expects that bastard to be here. It makes John angry. This stupid boy had a father, _has_ one, and he chooses the exact man that had put that father away to plead for instead? He still doesn't know how good he had it. How good Martin was. How good John could have had it, if Martin hadn't been _stolen_ from him.

He presses down in the same place, too hard, rips too deep, and Malcolm shrieks.

"Fuck," John mutters, putting his hand over it as it gushes blood. "Ah, shit. Damn you. Look what you made me do."

Malcolm looks confused. He stares down at the wound, his mouth opening and closing, and then finally, quietly he says, "'m bleedin'."

"No, really? You sure? Shut your mouth." John takes the boy's good hand, presses it down in place of his own. "Hold that. Push. Stay still."

Malcolm looks like he’s going to faint instead, so John hurries to unroll a wad of gauze and then slaps Malcolm's fingers away to hold it there himself.

"You have to ruin _everything_ , don't you?" he asks. "Worthless little shit. You're worthless. You're—"

"H...hungry," Malcolm says, so softly, and John hums, cups his cheek with one bloody hand. 

"Oh? Is that so? That's good...means you're getting better. But my...you're thirsty, tired, cold, _hungry..._ you just need so _much_. I'd love to give it to you, little Malcolm. Everything you want. Just tell me what I want to hear." 

Malcolm looks up at him, then away. Even in this state he's remembered, and that's good. Still, John makes another cut, because still, he made a mistake. "Eyes down. _Always_ down. Not unless I tell you to look."

"S...sorry," Malcolm says, and it’s nice to hear him sound so sincere. "I'm _sorry…_ "

"I know. You want to behave, don't you? You sound like you do. Look like it. How nice do you think the couch would feel instead of this cold floor, huh? You sure look like you could use a hot shower…a shave...a new pair of clothes. I could be so good to you, little Malcolm. We're not enemies. We're the _same._ I just want you to give in to me." 

Malcolm grimaces, and John doesn't know what more he can offer. Kindness, warmth—anything the stupid boy wants, John will gladly give to him. All he wants in return is Malcolm to stay on his knees _without_ being chained there, for Malcolm to obey his every word _without_ needing to be tortured into it. 

All he wants is Malcolm to be completely and entirely _his._

It's not much to ask, is it? He'd given himself to Martin. Obeyed and clung to his every word, his every whim, would have given him _anything_. It wasn't hard. It was the right thing to do, and so is this. If Malcolm would just _see_ that...things would be so much better. 

"How much longer do you think you can do this?" he asks. "Fight me? You're so weak you can barely move. What are you holding on for?"

He thinks he should have expected the answer, but it still catches John off-guard when Malcolm mumbles, "Them."

John scoffs. "Idiot. _Idiot._ Do you know how long you've been here?"

Hesitantly, Malcolm shakes his head. 

" _Weeks_ ," John replies, and the crushing devastation that falls over Malcolm's face is just _adorable._ "Weeks. And soon it'll be months. Years. They're never going to find you. You're never going back to _them._ " 

Malcolm's bottom lip trembles. "G...Gil…" 

" _No._ They don't know you like I do, anyway," he says, stroking the boy's hair. "The _real_ you. I can take _care_ of you. And we'll clean up together." 

" _Together!"_ Malcolm echoes, sounding _baffled,_ and John tugs his hair a bit.

“Yes. Is it a _problem?_ ” 

"Tha's...wha' y' wan' me for? P... _partners?"_

"Oh, don't think you wouldn't be on a _very_ short leash, little Malcolm. We wouldn't stand equal. You'd obey me. You'd do what I say, and nothing else. You'd serve me, but _we_ would serve God."

A pause, almost thoughtful.

And then Malcolm smiles a bit, giggles weakly, and says, " _Never."_

John forces a smile of his own. "We'll see how you feel in a few months.”

That has Malcolm crumbling, just a little. Just enough he lets out a sob. And John smiles for real.

He picks up the first aid kit, grabs the needle out and sterilizes it with a lighter before threading it. Malcolm whines softly, and John glares at him.

"Don't make this more difficult," he says. "It's your own damn fault. This _all_ is. Stay still."

Malcolm clearly braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut, but the second John sticks the needle through one side of the wound, he cries out and tries to squirm away.

"Stop it!" John says, slapping him, and Malcolm yelps again.

"Hurts! _No!_ " 

"Nothing you don't deserve," John tells him, lifting himself up to straddle Malcolm's waist, trying to pin him down. "Stay still!" 

Malcolm doesn't, and so John tries a different approach.

He leans over, and purrs, "Keep moving like that, little Malcolm, and I just _don't_ think you'll like where it gets you." 

Malcolm sucks in a breath and goes rigid. Frozen, just as perfectly as upstairs. 

"Good boy," John says, poking the needle in again, and again. Malcolm wails, his limbs involuntarily twitching hard, but he otherwise doesn’t struggle, is maybe too _scared_ to struggle. 

" _Very_ good boy. That’s it. Doing so well. You see? You _can_ behave. I know you can. You think I won't be _kind_ to you? You misunderstand this all. I _care_ for you. I'm _helping_ you. This is for _you._ I'll take care of you. I will. I'll only have to punish you when you're bad. But you can be good. You can keep being good. We can do so much _good."_

Malcolm has his eyes squeezed shut, raggedly panting through tightly gritted teeth, so John can't really see how he feels about that. Probably the same, but that's fine. It still won’t be much longer. He's already hungry. He's cold. Exhausted. Helpless. _John's._ Part of Martin is _John's_ now, _forever_ , fuck, Malcolm is _his…_

He shifts, much too abruptly, and exhales harshly. Malcolm's good hand clenches into a trembling fist, and he chokes out the most broken noise yet and then holds his breath.

John ignores it, ignores _him_ , finishes the stitching and quickly stands up, and Malcolm curls onto his side, sniveling.

John paces for a moment, sheathing his knife before he does something he really regrets with it.

And then he takes the switch and furiously beats at Malcolm's bare chest, until Malcolm is pleading and choking on sobs. It really doesn't take that long at all.

"Turn over," he hisses, and Malcolm shakes his head. 

"Turn the fuck over or I'll make you!" 

Sniffling and coughing, Malcolm obeys, pressing his bright-red face against his arm, and John yanks his shirt up as far as it will go to lash his back, too.

"Filthy sinner," he growls, louder than Malcolm's cries as he continues. "Filthy bastard! Filthy little _whore!_ You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? Maybe I can't change you. Maybe I should just kill you now. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Run away from your _purpose_ like you’ve been doing your whole life, like the coward you are. You're a _coward!_ Martin was wrong about you. You're not perfect. You're not worth anything. You’re just a disappointment. To him, to me, to _God._ You're just a sinner. _A sinner!"_

When he finally stops and takes a step back, panting from exertion, Malcolm isn't even crying anymore. He's just laying there, shaking, his mouth open to wheeze painful sounding breaths in.

John can't keep going. He wants to. But Malcolm's so damn _weak_...and there's already too much blood leaking out of the raw, flayed skin. 

Good. More marks. He hopes they’re permanent, too.

"Are you close?" he asks, and Malcolm blinks, very slowly.

"Hmm? Ready to say what I want to hear?"

Malcolm's eyes flutter, and then he sighs quietly as they shut. He doesn't make another sound, not even when John nudges him roughly with a foot.

"Shame," he says. "I'll get it out of you, though. I can feel it."

He doesn't want the boy to freeze, so he buttons the shirt up again, reluctantly covers his handiwork.

He marvels for a moment at the almost perfectly straight lines of red that seep through the fabric, and then he tosses the comforter over Malcolm and leaves.

He'll have plenty of time to admire once Malcolm lets go. The boy is holding on for people he'll never see again...and, well, all John really has to do is wait that out. Eighteen _frustrating_ days have gone by, but he’s made this much progress. It’s a good start to the new year, maybe his _best_ year. It might take to the end of the month, but there’s no way it’ll be much longer. Malcolm's hanging by a single, frayed thread. Soon he will see, he'll _understand_ , that John is the only person he needs. And not only that, but that John is the only person he'll ever _have_ again. 

Martin taught him patience. He can wait as long as he needs to, and enjoy what happens in the meantime.

**x**

Malcolm comes back to himself with his eyes already open, staring blankly at the shackle on one discolored wrist. Long-dried blood is caked into the links of chain. He wonders if it's his, or if it belongs to whoever was here before. 

He heaves, just once, and nothing comes up. He cries, silently, and no tears come out.

He wants to die. The very idea of the _relief_ it would bring is his only comfort, the only real thing he can think of.

Gil was never here. Maybe John never was either. Maybe neither is Malcolm. Maybe he doesn’t exist at all. At this point, that seems like the more likely option.

If John just cuts too deep next time, or hits him too hard, or causes just a little too much blood loss, his body might shut down. Like John had said, there’s only so much someone can take. And it won't be his fault, then, so Gil won't be able to blame him, won’t be able to be disappointed. It won’t be giving up. It won’t be his fault. It won’t be his fault...Gil might still be proud…

_No._

Gil will _never be proud._ Not of him. Not ever again.

He's alone for a long time, and he never moves. He tracks The Girl's hauntingly unnatural movements with a bleary gaze, but he doesn't tell her to leave. He watches everything waver in and out of focus, feels wind on his face and ice-cold water enveloping him, but he lets it all happen. He's too tired. He's just too damn tired. He just tries to keep breathing, as painful as it is. Listens to the shallow, raspy wheezes that go in, out, in, out. 

He's still alive, he thinks. But he's not entirely sure. 

He hears the door open, heavy shoes on the steps, and he doesn't even have the energy to curl into himself. He just...lays there. Eyes cracked open, focused on nothing. 

John comes right up to him, close enough Malcolm can smell pine on his shoes from a recent trip outside. He wonders, vaguely, if it’s still snowing. It’s been weeks...how many weeks? Maybe it’s been months. Maybe it’s spring. He has no way to know.

"Back with me, boy?" 

He keeps quiet. He just breathes.

John gets to one knee, takes Malcolm's chin, and lifts it. Malcolm averts his eyes, looks anywhere but up, and hears John let out a pleased hum.

"Look at you. _Learning._ I'm proud of you, little Malcolm. Good boy. Here."

He lifts Malcolm up a bit, moves his hand to cup the back of Malcolm's head, and puts a glass to his lips. 

Malcolm drinks, slow as he can manage. He doesn't want John to rip it away for _greed_ again. He's never been so thirsty, and so _grateful_ for a reprieve from it, however brief. 

It tastes...strange. Salty, and sweet, and acidic. He strains to think for a moment, and then recognizes it as a makeshift attempt to replace lost electrolytes. John _is_ trying to keep him alive.

Maybe if he just...if he just... _gives in…_

He nearly chokes. _No._ What the hell kind of thought is that?

John strokes his hair, gently, and the thought comes again. 

He could regain strength. He could heal. He'd just need long enough to get better, to get the upper-hand, to—

John leans over, presses his nose down against Malcolm’s scalp again, and Malcolm finally moves, turns and kicks out. His swollen knees, one in particular, flare with agony, protesting the sudden movement. He hears the glass cup crack against the ground, spilling what he hadn't managed to drink onto the floor. 

" _No,"_ he says. 

He won't live much longer, anyway. But he won't allow this. Not this. Not _that._

John snorts. He grabs the cup, stands, and Malcolm's gaze goes to the puddle. He doesn't think, just moves, pulls himself over to it and drinks up what he can.

" _Wow,"_ he hears John say, and he rests his head down again on the slightly damp stone, closing his eyes. 

"That was... _pathetic._ But you can have more, you know. All the water you want. Food. _Sleep._ ”

Malcolm doesn't move. He hopes John thinks he's passed out again, spares him from whatever torture he has planned this time.

Instead, John kicks his side, _thankfully_ the uninjured one. It still knocks the breath from him, nearly makes him vomit up all the water, and he coughs, “Please…”

“Oh, little Malcolm, I could never get _bored_ of hearing you beg, but...it’s sad that it never leads anywhere.” He pulls the duffel bag from its place against the far wall and slides it back beside Malcolm. “Hmm...what should I use this time? I’ll let you choose.”

He starts pulling out tools, and Malcolm groans.

“Please...I c-can’t, _please…_ ”

John taps one of his fingers with the hammer, just to make him flinch, and then sets it down.

“You know how to make it stop. Otherwise, pick something. Ooh, here we go. _Pliers._ These are fun. We could take your nails right off...maybe get rid of a tooth or three? No? What else...oh, _here’s_ that saw!”

Malcolm doesn’t raise his head, keeps his eyes shut even as he feels tiny metal teeth press down on his wrist. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you keep your hands. Your feet, too. Can’t leave you completely disabled, now can I? I need you to heal up and get standing again, eventually, so we can get out of here.”

Between unsteady breaths, Malcolm manages to ask, “Wh...where?”

John pulls the little hacksaw over Malcolm’s skin, only hard enough to scratch, to _taunt_. “Away. Did you think we’d stay here? It’s beautiful, yes, but I— _we_ —have work to do.”

“B...back?” Malcolm says, and John laughs. 

“To New York? Oh, little Malcolm. You know that’s not going to happen. No, we’ll go as far away from there as possible. I was thinking...Montana.” 

Malcolm inhales so sharply it’s a high-pitched whistle, and John grasps his hair and tugs.

“Sit up. We can talk.”

“Can’t,” Malcolm whispers. Just the _thought_ of moving makes his body ache—and yet still not as bad as the thought of being forced halfway across the country from the only people who can save him from this. “H...hurts.”

“And whose fault is that? Yours. It’s yours. Everything is _your fault._ And you’ll do what I tell you to, so _sit up._ ” 

Malcolm takes a deep breath. If he can just...keep John talking, keep him _satisfied,_ maybe he can avoid pain, at least for a little while. He really, _really_ doesn’t think he can move...but he knows John is just going to force him to obey anyways, so he drags his arms under him and starts trying to lift himself up. 

“That’s it,” John says, _encouragingly,_ and Malcolm grunts, tries to distract from the fact he is _never_ going to be able to do this by speaking.

“Wh...aah...why...th-there?”

“Sin,” John replies, watching him struggle. “I’ve done my research. I was never meant to stay in New York, or I would still be there. Everything that happens is part of God’s plan. So when I knew what I had to do, with you, I started looking for other places that needed my help. _Our_ help.” 

Malcolm’s side throbs. His knees ache. The stitches in his chest pull, and he slumps back down to an elbow. 

“Try again,” John says. “Get up. Come on.”

Shadows move in the corners of his vision. His skin prickles and crawls and makes him want to scratch it off, maybe with the _saw_ if it just makes it _stop._ He puts his hand down again, mistakenly puts too much weight on the other wounded one, and then hits the floor.

“Oh, you poor thing,” John coos, rubbing his torn-open back, and Malcolm cries out.

“Should we start with the tools, instead? I thought we could’ve chatted a bit about your future, first. But if you wanted to get straight to it, you should have just said so.”

“ _Please,_ ” Malcolm wheezes, and he starts to cry when John uses his nails to keep scraping at the scabs. “Please! _Please!"_

John pauses, just to wipe his hand over Malcolm’s face. “Well, would you look at that? Tears! Just a few...but that’s a good sign. You _should_ probably save them, though, if you’re planning on staying down here.”

“J _-John…_ ”

“Yes, little Malcolm?”

Malcolm tries to focus through the sudden, nearly unbearable pounding in his head. He can’t take any more pain...hurts...God, why does it _hurt_ so much…? 

"P...please," he says. "Please. 'm tryin' t-to...to be g-good, John. O...ok-kay? I p-promise."

“You’re not trying hard enough,” John says, but he moves his hand up to pet Malcolm’s hair instead of hurting him further. Malcolm groans softly, rubbing his face against his arm, and groans again as he feels like the ground lurches underneath him. He gasps, opening his eyes, and touches the dirt—no—the stone—no, where...wait...where is he? The cellar...maybe...no, he...he doesn't know.

“What’s _wrong,_ hmm?”

As cloudy as his thoughts are, Malcolm knows he doesn’t want John to have more to use against him. So instead he forces out, "T...tell me...h-how...I c-can…wanna t-try, J-J-John. Wh...what c-can...I...do?"

He trembles harder as John hums and touches the back of his neck. No, no, _no_ —he shouldn't have said that, he shouldn't have—

"Pray." 

Malcolm blinks hard, feels a stale breath he hadn't known he was keeping in woosh out of him. "P...pray?" 

"Yes. You _have_ been praying, haven't you? Like I told you to?" 

Well. He…he supposes he should feel relieved that's all...right? "Uh...uh…y...yeah."

John slides his hand around to cup the front of Malcolm's throat, squeezing. "Don't lie to me."

"Not!" Malcolm manages, and grimaces as John presses harder. "Not...l-lyin'...promise!" 

The pressure eases a bit, and Malcolm drags in a gasp. 

"Good," John says. "That's good. Do it now. Let me hear. I'd like to make sure you're doing it right." 

Malcolm shifts, trying to get more air, and John pushes down again. 

"Stop. Impress me, and I'll let you go."

"O—kay," he wheezes, nodding. "Uh...uh…aah...G-God?"

"Put your hands together."

Malcolm grunts, moving a little more onto his side, and John leans over him to keep his hold. He's already dizzy, can’t remember a time he _wasn’t_ anymore, and now his chest is starting to ache, and he can't move his hand. It hurts too much. Blood has long since soaked through the layers of gauze, and he fears John is going to dig into it again as punishment, but it _won't move._

"Can't—" he chokes out. John looks at him like he's something repulsive, and then lets go. Malcolm coughs and pants, and nearly allows _a thank you_ to slip through his numb lips.

John pulls him up, and he cries out as his knees bend, stretching them out as John forces him to sit. Then, John takes Malcolm's hands and smacks them together, hard enough it sends pulses of spasming agony through the wound and all the way up to his shoulder. It wrings another scream out of him, and he must black out for a few seconds, because suddenly John is shaking him, and his head is listless and heavy against his chest. 

"Hey. Ah, ah! Stay awake. You hear me? Start again."

" _Oh…_ " Malcolm moans, remaining limp, and John lifts his arms up. 

_"Pray_ , or my knife's going through _both_ hands!" 

Malcolm whimpers, and gags, and struggles to obey. "Mmm...'kay! Pl's _no_ …I'm, uh...God...s-s...sorry!"

John tsks. "Is that it? Really? That's all you've been saying?"

"N…no," Malcolm says, shaking so hard that John seems to have difficulty holding him where he wants him. "I'm s-s-sorry, I'm... _sorry._ R- _real_ s-sorry. For…for wh...wh-what I d-did."

Tightening his grip, John asks, "And what _did_ you do, hmm?" 

Malcolm breathes in, shakily, the threat of more tears making his throat burn. "T-turned him in." 

"Who?" 

"M...Martin." 

John squeezes his hand, and Malcolm can hardly even make a noise. 

"Don't make me beat you out again. I don't think you'll wake up. Tell me _who._ "

"My f—f-f—father," Malcolm gasps at length. "My—my d-dad. I...I'm sorry, I'm _sorry._ "

"That's right. He _is_ your father. Your blood. So why'd you do that? You must have had a reason…"

Malcolm closes his eyes, and sees an image of Martin in that blood-red sweater.

_'Malcolm?_ _Listen to me. I want you to remember something, okay?'_

"I was scared," he whispers. "I was scared. H-he sca—he scared me."

“He didn’t scare you. Don’t lie to me, to _Him._ He knows. He knows you're lying, and so do I. Tell the truth.”

He knows the truth, doesn't he? He knows that he’d called them, made them take away the only person who had ever loved him so much, who had _adored_ him—

No. Martin hadn’t loved him. He was a narcissist who only loved himself, who only _used_ Malcolm, manipulated him, and—

Made him hot chocolate, took him to the park, read him to sleep, spent every _second_ with him—

_Obsessed_ over him. He’d been obsessed with him. There’s entire _years_ blocked out in Malcolm’s memory, a million awful things that could have happened that he _just doesn’t remember._ The way Martin looks at him sometimes now, like he’s a _toy_ to be wound up and played with, like Malcolm isn’t his own but _Martin’s,_ like—

_'You're my son. And I love you.’_

He flinches, opens his eyes, and tears fall down his cheeks. 

“‘m not lying,” he says, desperately. “What h-happened...sc-scared me. B-but...I was scared...what _I’d_ do. What I...what I’d d-do for him. I woulda...I...I _loved_ him...I...I m-miss...I _miss_ ‘im, I...I…”

All at once he’s crying, sobs wracking his body, and feels like everything in the entire universe is crashing down on him.

“I loved him,” he gasps, “I _loved_ him, I—he—why did he—? He—he _h-hurt_ me, he d-drugged me, he m-made me—”

John releases him just to slap him, and Malcolm cries harder, covers his face. 

“You’re blaming him again. Whose fault is it, huh?”

“His! He h-hurt me—”

“You lying little _fuck,_ ” John hisses, and sends his closed fist into Malcolm’s nose. “Don’t you blame him! Whose fault is it?”

Panting, Malcolm shakes his head. “I don’t know…I don’t—”

John hits him again, then grabs the chain connecting the shackles, yanking him forward. “ _Stop lying!_ Whose fault is it? _Whose fault?_ ”

_‘I will always love you.’_

Another hard smack across his face, curses spit at him, so different from anything his father would ever do, because even when his father was upset he had _loved_ Malcolm, loved him so much because—

_‘Because we’re the same.’_

“It’s mine!” he wails, and John grabs his chin.

“That’s it. That’s what I want. Say it again. _Tell me_ whose fault it is.”

Malcolm can hardly breathe, choking on tears and blood, and his hands scrabble at John’s. “It’s mine, it’s my fault, _please._ Please!”

“Do you know _why,_ or are you just saying that?”

“I—I don’t know—”

John shoves him down on his back, pins him there with a hand around his throat, and Malcolm cries out as the back of his head hits the stone.

“Stop saying you don’t know! You do know! You did it! You did it then, you did it with me. You didn’t mind your own _fucking business!_ You could have had him longer, your whole life. You could have been a family. You could have been happy, if you ever learned to just _shut your mouth."_

"He—killed!” Malcolm manages, and John scoffs.

“You stupid thing. People die all the time. People are dying right now. People who don’t even deserve it. But you don’t think about that, do you? All you think about is saving the sinners that never should have been _born._ He just needed a while longer with you. You were so close. You could have _been_ something, could have helped us, _worked_ with us. Instead you’re _ruined._ Look at you! You really think you’re better without him? Locking up people like us, like him, like _you_ with your little pretend family? You think they care about you? Your _father_ cared about you. More than anyone ever will again. Not your mommy, not your sissy, not _them._ And he’ll rot and die in that cell because of _you!"_

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, fights with all his strength to drag in oxygen and _can’t,_ and then—

“ _Malcolm."_

He blinks hard, looking up at _his father,_ and then flails his arms as he suddenly falls to his knees. His hands bury into cold earth, and he yanks back like it burns, staring at them. Dirt under his fingernails...cold seeping into his jeans...

“Oh,” Martin laughs, reaching down to pick him up. “I told you to be careful of the ice!” 

Malcolm stares at him, then rubs his eyes and looks around. Trees, a thin path in the forest, he’s...outside...he’s outside again, but...but it feels more real than anything he’s ever experienced before. It feels like he's suddenly been snapped back to where he always was, and everything _else_ was false. He doesn’t understand, he—what’s—

“Never one to listen,” John says from behind him, and Malcolm whirls to face him, terrified, but John looks... _different_. He doesn't look like he had in the cellar. He’s smiling, _kindly,_ and looks...he looks... _younger_. Yes, that's what it is, and—and his father’s beard is black instead of gray. 

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Martin chuckles again and reaches out, takes one of Malcolm’s hands in his own, and starts to pull him along. 

“No. But he’s a good boy. My boy. Aren’t you, Malcolm?”

A stab of pain shoots through his head, and he drops again, clutching at it. There’s a heavy weight behind him, and hands around his own, pulling him forward.

“You can do this. I’m right here,” Martin tells him, and Malcolm looks in front of them. His vision tilts, blurs, flickers. But there’s a woman there on the ground, in a black winter jacket, unmoving. Lights flash as he tries to see her face, and he can't—

“Dad—” he manages to choke, but it doesn’t sound like his own—not from now. It’s so small, so _scared,_ he’s never felt so _scared_ — “Please!”

“Come _on,_ ” John mutters impatiently, and Malcolm looks up, at the clunky black video camera he’s holding pointed at them. “Freezin’ my ass off.”

“Ignore him,” Martin says, squeezing him in what might be an attempt at a hug, except he’s too busy holding a _knife_ between Malcolm’s shaking hands. “Just you and me, Malcolm. Just like we talked about, now. I know it’s a bit of a divergence from the plan, but...well, she’s just _fallen_ into our laps, hasn’t she, _John?_ ”

He blinks hard, and then he can see her. For the first time, he sees her black hair cascading down across her slack face, her closed eyes. She's not The Girl. She's someone else.

There were two. There were _always two._

“No. _No._ ” His hands move anyways, pulled by his father’s, and he sobs. “Please no—”

The knife presses into her, draws blood, and he screams. He somehow gets Martin’s hands off of him, and then he’s running, running, he can’t stop—

“ _Malcolm!"_

No, no, _run!_

He keeps going. He can't go back to the cabin. That's where they'll find him. He can't let them do that. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, he’s out here alone, his mom doesn't know, there’s no where he can go—

He slams into their station wagon, gets the door open, and curls himself into the front seat. No. No. His dad couldn't make him do that. He _couldn't._ He'd—he'd trusted his dad, trusted _John—_ why were they doing this? Why were they—

Groaning, clinking, shifting.

He freezes. He remembers. He shouldn't be here. 

And then, so quiet, so _weak_ , he hears, " _Hello…?"_

He shrinks down even more. No. No, no, no—evil, bad, _evil_ —

"... _Malcolm?"_

Malcolm gasps, but it still feels like he’s not getting air. He's...he's never heard The Girl sound like that. So frightened. So _small_. Where...where is he? He doesn't—no, wait—this isn't _real_ , he's—

_"I won't hurt you...hey…it's Malcolm, r-right? Please…please help me._ "

Hands are suddenly on his shoulders, and he screams. His chest is on fire. He can't see, can't move—

“Hey, hey, _hey!_ ” 

Slowly, his vision fades back in, and John is above him, and Oh, _God_ he’s tired...he’s so tired...he’s never felt so _exhausted…_

“Malcolm,” John says, and Malcolm never thought he’d hear the man sound so _worried,_ especially not about him. "Breathe. Take a breath!"

He breathes, and the fire dulls. He starts to cough, and John turns his head to the side as he spits up blood and saliva. His tongue hurts...he's bitten his tongue…why does everything _hurt?_

“Wh...at?” he manages, and John heaves out a breath of his own. He’s holding Malcolm’s head, stroking fingers through his hair, and Malcolm thinks of his father. Martin had never denied Malcolm comfort, had given it to him whenever he wanted, held him when he was scared or craving affection...treated him like he was the most important thing until suddenly he _wasn't,_ until Martin _ruined it…_ or Malcolm did…

Malcolm did. His fault. _His._ Malcolm ruined it all...

“You back?” John asks, and Malcolm whimpers. Back? No. He doesn't know where he is anymore. He's not sure he's _anywhere._

“I’m s-sorry,” he rasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry, I’m _sorry_ …”

"You are, are you?" John strokes his chin, pets his sweat-soaked hair back. "But are you sorry _enough?"_

The words are barely registering. Something has gone very, very wrong, but he doesn't know _what._ He's so tired...so tired…

"Sorry...y-yes…so sorry...please..."

"You ready to make up for it? Hmm? Answer me. Come on."

"Okay…sorry...s...sorry...I'm…"

"Stay awake, just a second. Are you _ready?"_

Malcolm doesn't know what he's saying, doesn't know what he _can_ say. He just knows he's tired, at the very limit of his endurance. So he nods, weakly, and whispers, " _Yes._ "

John pets his face, then leans over and presses his forehead to Malcolm's, his lips against Malcolm’s temple.

" _Good boy,"_ he breathes out, and slides a horrifically cold hand up under Malcolm's shirt. "I knew it'd be soon. Just didn't know when. Oh, good boy… _mine…"_

And then John _kisses_ him, and Malcolm can't do anything but _sob._

"Ssh," John murmurs, pulling back, "ssh, I’m sorry. That was wrong. That was _wrong,_ but you—you’ve been so _frustrating,_ I thought maybe you’d never—but you are. You're mine. He wasn't, but you are. You're _mine._ But I won't hurt you. No, I can be done with that. Because you're going to be good, aren't you? Yes, you are. Because I saved you."

Malcolm shakes violently, only able to see through a vague, blurred tunnel now. "Please...please...I'm…"

"Oh, I know. That took a lot out of you, didn't it? But it's just what you needed, little Malcolm. I think it finally shook something loose. You can make him proud, now. Make _me_ proud."

"D...Dad…?”

"Ssh,” his father says, and he strokes Malcolm’s face with a blood-stained hand. “You’ve done so good. You can sleep. You deserve it. Just sleep.”

Sirens...he can hear sirens…blue and red flashes against his closed eyelids...distant...everything so distant, fading…fading…

And then, gone.

**x**

"Wake up."

Slowly, Malcolm opens his eyes. He’s not sure where he is as reality flickers between outside and the cellar, between childhood and now. He blinks hard, shuddering, and feels a hand on his cheek, another pushing him into a sitting position.

“Ugh,” he mumbles, slumping over, and groans when he’s pulled upright again. 

“Ah, ah. Stay awake. Come on, little Malcolm. Look what I’ve brought for you.”

Malcolm can’t focus. Whatever happened before, the memory—it’s left him weaker than any of the others. Even as he tries to look around, things are shadowed, and when the support leaves his back, he starts to sag forward again.

“ _Malcolm,_ ” John says, and slaps him across the face. Malcolm sucks in a breath, shaking his head, and looks up, settles his bleary gaze on John's feet.

John goes over behind something that Malcolm doesn’t think was there before—so many things he just doesn’t know for _sure—_ and then suddenly a brilliant flash of bright light burns into Malcolm’s eyes, and he flinches and turns away, squeezing them shut.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John coos, and Malcolm moans, reaches up to rub his aching head, to shield his face.

“I know, but I can't see you on the screen without it.”

The...screen? What is John even _talking_ about? Making no sense...Malcolm just wants to go back to _sleep…_ probably isn't even real, probably a dream…everything's a dream...

He blindly gropes for his blanket, starts to pull it back around himself, and then whines when it’s tugged away.

“No…pl's...cold…”

“You’ll be warm soon. You just need to focus. You need to open your eyes. Come on.”

He tries, but it’s too much. It’s been so dark in here, he’s been hiding under the blanket for _forever,_ it’s _too bright._

"I...I can’t,” he says. His voice doesn't sound like his own, doesn't even seem to be coming from his mouth. He doesn't know if it's his mouth. He doesn't know if it's his _body._ Maybe he doesn't even have a body. “Hurts.”

"Poor thing.” John strokes his hair, and Malcolm whimpers softly. 

“Do you remember what we agreed on? You can come upstairs now. I’ll give you something to help you sleep. We’ll get your fever down, make sure you don’t have another seizure. You’ll be better in no time.”

“O-oh?” Malcolm manages. Another…? He doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember anything. Nothing is real. _He's_ not real. He's nothing, he's no one, he's...just _tired._

"Hey. Open your eyes. They'll adjust."

He still can't, so John grabs his face and forces them open with his fingers. 

Malcolm squirms, crying out, and John easily holds him still.

"I have something _special_ for you. Come on. All you have to do is look." 

He pulls Malcolm forward, to the edge of the chain's length, and drops him again. Malcolm somehow manages to crack his eyes open, white spots blinding him, and he notices something in front of him before he has to close them again.

"Wha's 'at?" he asks, reaching out. 

His hand hits something soft. _Warm._

It takes him a second to react, and then he gasps, flinching away. "What—"

John grabs a handful of his hair, yanking him back into place. 

"Stay in frame," he says, and Malcolm blinks hard, scans the room for another brief second and then covers his eyes with his arm. 

There's a tripod next to the light. A red, blinking dot at the top.

And a _body_ in front of him.

"J- _John_ …? What...what…" He grabs at the air in front of him, vaguely in the direction of _it._ "... _Dead?"_

He wishes he didn't ask. He wishes _he_ was dead. He wishes John would torture him again, kill him, anything else, _anything._

But he did ask. He _did._

And John chuckles wickedly, pets him, and answers,

"Not yet. But she will be, very soon. Because you, little Malcolm...you're going to kill her."


	16. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, yes, welcome. This is the worst chapter and I apologize for both everything and nothing. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING!!!! for non-con touching and a really aggressive threat of non-con a little more than halfway down in the chapter (it's like...really obvious when). I really have to make this CLEAR: Malcolm is undeniably assaulted in this. But it's relatively brief, undetailed, and probably not what you’re thinking reading this. It DOES NOT go any further than touching and threatening, but seriously, the scene is really intense and disturbing and creepy and uncomfortable. This whole chapter is dark as all fuck tbh.
> 
> There’s also torture, mostly psychological but also physical, violence, suicidal thoughts, a brief implication of past non-con, and Malcolm, by the end of the chapter, completely losing his ability to determine what's real.
> 
> If any of this sounds too much, you can skip to the second part under the X to avoid the first 2 TWs, or skip it all and read the small and easy summary of what happens in the bottom notes, or you can leave a comment and I’ll leave you one there!
> 
> Thank you for all your support. You guys mean everything to me!  
> (・w・;)

"Look at the camera."

Malcolm trembles, his breaths shallow and quick, and only stares at her.

"Hey. Look _up_." 

He can't. He _can't._

"Malcolm _fucking Whitly,_ look at the camera or I'm going to saw her fingers off and shove them _one by one_ down your throat. _Look at it!"_

John's enraged voice hurts his ears, his head. The threat hurts his soul. He still can't open his eyes all the way in the light, but after a moment Malcolm squints obediently up at the camera. There’s just no other choice.

John is nothing but a shadow behind the tripod. "There’s my good boy,” he coos. “Perfect! Oh, don't look so sad. I just want you to say hi!" 

Malcolm sniffles, struggling to hold back tears, but they start to fall anyways. He doesn't know why he ever bothered trying. "Wh...who?" 

" _Martin,_ of course," John says, and the words feel like a blow that sends Malcolm reeling. 

"This is for him! You think I'd let you have your first—well, your _second_ kill without catching it? He didn't get to see your first...oh, he's going to be so proud. I don't think he'll forgive me, but...that's okay. I have you now. You’re all I need. Say hi, won't you?"

Letting out a helpless whimper, Malcolm softly mumbles, _"Hi."_

John claps his hands together, and Malcolm flinches. His hands shake, and for a moment the rattling of his chains—and The Girl's—is the only sound in the room. 

" _Thank_ you. Was that really so hard? No, I don't think it was. Shame I won't be able to really _give_ him this, though…” 

He sighs, rather heavily. Malcolm can’t look at him, is _not_ _allowed_ to _,_ but John sounds truly _forlorn_ about it all. He still misses Martin, and that scares Malcolm. It means that, despite all the talk about Malcolm being his new _favorite,_ Martin is still in the back of his mind, and Malcolm is still the reason he’s not here, and whether Malcolm is _bad_ or not, John is still likely always going to find something he needs to be hurt for.

He thinks about not being here anymore. He thinks about when they’re even further away from anyone who had ever even _once_ cared for him. Will John keep him restrained? Blinded? Gagged? Will he keep him in the trunk the whole trip? No...no, Malcolm can’t...he can’t be put there again. Not where it was so small and cramped and hot and smelled like _death_ and he couldn’t _breathe._ Not where he felt like The Girl. He can’t.

"Not personally, anyway,” John continues, bringing him out of his head, and he takes a gasping breath for what feels like the first time in a while. 

“What was that? You forget how to breathe?”

Malcolm lowers his head. He doesn't reply, but the answer is _yes._ Back in the shed, the very moment John had knocked him down, he’d forgotten, and he hasn’t been able to do it right since.

_“Anyways,_ ” John says, like he was so _rudely_ interrupted. “He wouldn’t be happy to see me. I know that. Not after what I've done to you. And that's...sad." He shifts his weight, tentatively touching the camera. "I really...cared for him. But I hope he can see this and be proud of me. And you, little Malcolm. You can finally make him _proud_. I promise it'll get to him. And probably your little friends! Hey...why don't you say hi to them, too?"

Instead, Malcolm reaches up and covers his eyes. Takes another unsatisfying breath. And another. Alive, but not really. And honestly, he’s still not entirely sure about it.

"Oh, no. Don't cover your pretty face. You look good on camera, little Malcolm. A natural. I really got a _deal_ on this thing...you can see every tear when I zoom in. Look at that...that's amazing. Let me see your eyes. Come on. _Look_ _up._ You _just told me_ you’d be good. Are you going to make me hurt you again? In front of your _father?"_

He lets his hand drop back down to his lap. He doesn't know what else to do, and so he looks up again. Looks right into the lens, to _Martin_ , to _them_ , and feels worse than he ever has, tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. 

" _Beautiful_. Oh, wow. I really should have filmed you before all this, to compare it. You fought so hard for a while, and now...oh, you look so...defeated.” 

Does he? Look as broken as he feels? As broken as John has made him?

“What _will_ your friends think of you like this?” John asks, just as Malcolm wonders the same. “All bloody and sniveling like a child? And what you're going to do…oh, they never loved you, but they won't even _like_ you now. Say _hi."_

The thought of them, of _Gil,_ not only seeing him cry, seeing him _break,_ but seeing him fucking _murder_ someone drags a sob from his throat, and he chokes out a high-pitched whine of, "H-h- _hi_ —" and hangs his head to cry harder, wishing there was somewhere to hide, some way he could escape this. He thinks about how John will likely guide his hands again, like he had outside, like Martin had back then, forcing him to kill even if he fights. Thinks about how he’s going to kill this woman, because John will _make_ him.

And then he realizes it's worse than that, _much_ worse, as John approaches to dump the bag of tools out in front of him. They clatter against the stone, and he startles again, begins to rock gently as John gets to one knee and neatly lines them up for _him_ to decide. 

He can't. Not this. Anything else. Please. _Please_.

"Don't be scared," John murmurs, cupping Malcolm's chin. "Don't be. Everything's going to be just fine." 

John looks back and leans to the side, just enough to ensure Malcolm is still on screen. "Tell him what you learned yesterday, little Malcolm. Tell him what you told me."

Malcolm doesn't say anything, squeezing his eyes shut, and tilts his head to try and pull free.

"Don't pretend you don't remember, now…" He moves behind Malcolm, grabs either side of his head, and forces it back up. "Tell him. He should know. Tell him you’re _sorry._ ”

“S-sorry,” Malcolm mumbles, and John digs his nails deep into his scalp.

“ _Louder!_ ”

“I’m _sorry!”_ Malcolm cries, and John shakes him, sends a cramp through the side of his neck and makes him ever dizzier. 

“Tell him _why! Don’t_ make me hurt you!” 

"F-for...for b-betraying him!"

"Talk to _him,_ little Malcolm. Right there. Tell him!"

Malcolm whimpers. He can't imagine Martin seeing this. Would he care, that Malcolm was being hurt? That this was coming out from force? Or would he just be glad to finally have the apology he'd always been waiting for?

"For t-turning y-you in," he says, through gritted teeth as John digs in even harder, "'cause...m-my fault. N-not yours. Mine. Aah, God, _please!"_

John relents, just slightly. Malcolm feels a trickle of warmth drip down past his ear. 

"What's your fault, hmm?"

Malcolm closes his eyes, opens them again, and says, "Everything." 

It's more than satisfactory. John leans down to kiss the top of his head, nuzzling against his hair, and praises him. "Good boy. Such a good boy. Thank you."

Malcolm only grunts softly. John releases him, and Malcolm slumps like the pathetic, weak little boy he is. Finally broken. Ready to be built back into what he's _meant_ to be. It hadn't even taken three weeks. All John had really had to do was let the monsters in Malcolm's own head tear at him down here alone, and give him a few little pushes when the time was right. 

John is _such_ a good man. This is his doing. _His_. Martin should be proud, and more than that, God _is_ proud. John knows He is. 

He pulls Malcolm back up by his shirt collar, and holds him by his chin again. The boy's eyes flutter, and John clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"Don't pass out on me. Camera's still rolling. You can sleep all you want when it's off."

Malcolm squints, trying to obey, and mumbles, "Y...y' filmed m...me. In the...the...w-woods. Dad. S...saw you."

John strokes along his jaw. "You remember that? I did, little one. I did. I _love_ making memories. I have so many of them stored away. Would you like to see some, later? I'd love to show you. We can watch them together."

Malcolm responds incoherently, shaking his head, but John is already happily imagining tying the boy up on the couch upstairs—or the bed—and then settling beside him to rewatch all of his homemade films. Malcolm would learn to enjoy them, if John played them enough. Maybe that's something he could do. He knows _he_ will never tire of watching them...he can play them again and again until Malcolm feels the same. 

Yes. That's what he'll do. After he gets Malcolm clean, and after he _rewards_ him for his success here. He hasn't thought of what the reward will be, but...he's sure he'll think of something. Malcolm makes him think of so very _many_ things...

He feels tears on his hand, and focuses back in the present. For someone who’s been getting so little water, Malcolm sure seems to have a lot to waste. 

"Hey now. I’ve made it so _easy_ for you! She's drugged. She won't fight. Not even sure she’ll feel it, if you’re quick enough. I know you’ll have to work up to them being awake. So this time, the goal is just to stop her heart. Really, it’s such an easy thing to do. Okay?”

In response, Malcolm gags, strong enough it shakes his whole body, and John pulls away like something’s going to get on him, like Malcolm has anything in him to actually throw up anymore.

"Aww, you're _nervous,_ ” he says as Malcolm sags forward, groaning softly between coughs. “Camera shy, even. That's fine! I mean, just imagine how many people are going to see this. Do you think it’ll be on the news? Maybe your sister will do another exclusive on it. That really would be something. I saw her last one. Saw her goading your father about you, for everyone to see. Disgusting. _Sinful_. Your father always preferred you, and I can see why. She’s not something to be proud of.”

  
“Ainsley,” Malcolm mumbles absently, and it almost feels wrong on his tongue, to say her name somewhere so terrible, to a man as awful as John. 

Ainsley... _Mom_. He misses them...took for granted the fact he could see them any time he wanted, and _now…_

Now he's never going to see them again.

“Hmm," John says. "Yes, _her_. Something you want to say to her? Hmm? Or to Mommy? Or to _Gil?_ How about you tell them what we’re going to do together? They should be proud. You’ve been _chosen._ We both have. It’s an honor. We’re going to clean up the world, you and me. Oh, I can’t wait. By the time they see this, we’ll already be working. Isn’t that fun to think about?”

“In…Montana?” Malcolm asks, and when John smacks him, he can hardly feel it. His vision fades in and out, blurs and then clears again, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep himself conscious. If he wasn't fighting, he'd probably have fallen asleep the second John had started supporting his too-heavy head. 

“You think I can’t just edit that out? Stupid boy. I know how to work a computer. And maybe that’s not where we’re going at all. Maybe we’ll move _countries._ Oh, wow, that was a _shudder..._ you don’t like that idea? It’s always going to be dangerous, staying here, with our faces all over the place, but...I was thinking I could shave, and we can dye this pretty hair of yours black. How does that sound? You can grow out your beard, dye that too—you’ll look just like Martin!”

“ _Great,_ ” Malcolm says, under his breath but still too loud, and John pulls his head back. He quickly shuts his eyes to avoid meeting John’s, and hears John coo his appreciation, same as one would after teaching their pet a new trick. It makes him sick.

“ _Good_ boy. Such a good boy now, aren't you? Yes, you are. You’re right, though. You don’t need to look like him. I don't want you to. I like you just like this. Too much, you know that? You're a little _too_ pretty. Gonna be a problem, looking at you all the time. It already is. Just wanna…"

Cold anxiety twists in Malcolm's stomach, and he grimaces as John's slides his free hand up Malcolm's chest to eventually stroke his cheek. 

"I can't think of anything else but you, Iittle Malcolm," he says, rubbing over Malcolm's mouth again, and God, Malcolm is never going to feel anything but _dirty_ again, not ever.

"It's really not healthy. All I want is to get to work. But I thought about it, and...it makes sense. I think I've been lonely. And now I've been gifted with you." 

He gently nudges Malcolm's lips open with a finger, and Malcolm flinches, grits his teeth tight as John's nail taps against them as he prods. Please _stop_...stop touching, _stop,_ he needs John to _stop—_ never gonna stop, Malcolm's stuck with him _forever—_

"You are so _special._ So important. Do you know that? Do you know _how_ special? You're the only one. The _only one_ who can change. The only one who gets a second chance. That's what I was always meant to guide you to. That's why I met your father. That's why I met _you._ I was so selfish, thinking that was all about me. But it's about you, too. Both of us. We're His _saviors_ , little Malcolm. His favorites. Don't you see? Can't you _feel_ it? It's all lead to this! Malcolm, I'm so _happy!_ "

He leans over, presses a too-long kiss to Malcolm's forehead, and then suddenly, unmistakably tries to meet their lips again. Malcolm lets out a terrified, shrill shriek of protest, loud enough to startle John into pulling back.

" _Stop!"_ Malcolm says, _pleads_ , and John slaps him again, yanks his hair, grabs his injured hand and squeezes it.

"I've never been happy before," he says, voice strained, after Malcolm's scream tapers off into silence. "Not like this. When I was with your father...it was _only_ when I was with him. But now I feel it without you, too. Maybe that's because you're always down here...just for me. Even when I come to hurt you, you look...relieved to see me, almost. You don't like being alone, do you? Well, you'll never have to be again. _I'm_ here now. And I've been _dreaming_ about what we'll accomplish. _Together_. Just like it was always meant to be. We're going to have so much _fun_. We really are. I can't wait for you to understand just how lucky you are. You'll thank me. For _everything_ I do."

John releases him with a little shove forward, and Malcolm braces himself on an elbow, body shivering as he struggles through the waves of pain and _shame_ radiating through him, burning him up from the inside out. He hadn't known just how _much_ John could read him. 

But he's right. Because even a beating had been better than being left down here to wither in his withdrawal-induced fear.

"So come on," John says. "Let's get to it. Pick something. And I swear, little boy, I _swear,_ if you try to be smart again, try to swing one of those at me, I'm going to take that saw and skin you alive with it. And that'd really be a shame."

Malcolm's seconds away from grabbing for it, too, just to slit his fucking wrist, just to _stop the hurt,_ just to stop—

His eyes land on the blade, and his breaths grow heavier. If he...if he _does_ that, _this_ will stop. He won't have to kill. John won't be able to make him do anything ever again if he's dead. 

His fingers fold around the handle. John says something about it being a good choice.

It probably is. It's probably the _right_ one.

Just one or two long, easy swipes, and no half-assed stitching would save him in time. He can do it over where the first try had failed, fix his mistake. Gil will understand. He will. Or maybe John is right, and Gil won’t even care. He definitely shouldn’t. In fact, he more than likely doesn’t. Malcolm is nothing but The Surgeon’s filthy fucking murderering son. Who would _really_ care about him? Other than maybe John, now, and that’s the absolute _last thing_ he’d ever actually want.

If he lets this happen, if he goes with John, he fears John will become the only thing he knows. He fears the intensity of the sick affection John has been showing will increase to a level he can't handle, that he'd do anything to prevent.

And he fears something in him that he’s managed to suppress, with medication and denial, might surface, and he might _like_ to kill.

Maybe this _is_ his destiny, and has been all along. Martin had certainly trained him well, if so. 

His eyes dart to the camera. Would Martin like this, when he saw it? Would he…would be finally be proud of what he created, even if it was John who finally brought it about? Would he love Malcolm _more_ for what he would become? 

Exhaustion weighs on him, sinks him a little closer to the floor.

As much as he knows he still craves Martin's approval somewhere inside, _that_ isn't what he wants. _This_ isn't. And he doesn’t want to live if where it leads him is being John’s _slave._

Thirty years has already been much, much too long. And if he dies first, maybe she won't have to.

His eyes water, and he whimpers. His head clears a little from the overwhelming euphoric feeling he'd received from the mere idea of ending it. 

John will just finish the job when he’s gone, and Malcolm will have killed her anyways. He's going to kill her, even if it's by inactivity, even if he’s not here to know it. She's still going to die, and it's still going to be his fault. 

He drops the saw, reaching up to cover his face again. 

His fault, everything _his fault_ , and they were all going to see it. And if someone got ahold of it and did air it? If he ended up on some sort of news special? Then the whole _world_ would see it. 

He’s always been worthless. Everyone had always known. From the kids that beat him to the adults that judged him, he's always been treated as he deserved. 

And now they’d see him just as they imagined he’d always been. Broken, defeated, nothing. _Nothing._

He’s nothing. He’s _nothing._

His death would be a blessing to everyone, not just him. He just wants to die. He _just_ wants to _die, please._ Can't do this anymore, he just can't. He can't _breathe,_ he has to—

He starts to gasp, reaching up to pull at his hair. "Please, please, please…" he mumbles, but he doesn't even know what he's begging for, just cries and hyperventilates while John simply watches.

"You're a mess," John finally chuckles. “Let me help make it real simple for you.” 

He takes Malcolm’s hands, and slams them down against the floor.

"If you lift your hands up and they're _empty,_ I'm going to nail both of them to the floor and _feed_ her to you, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. Do you understand?" 

Desperately, Malcolm nods, sputtering through the pain, “Y-yes, yes, o-okay, just p-please don’t—”

" _Relax._ If you’re good, you don't have to worry. And I've got plenty of memory space, so take your time. Pick the right tool. That's most important, little Malcolm. You have to pick the right tool. Probably not the saw...that's more advanced. That's for when you want them to really bleed. Shame we broke the axe...but the hammer would be quick. One hit to the skull. Crush it. Or...would you like to hurt her, first? There's no shame in that. I'd like you more for it. Martin, oh, Martin would be _proud._ But really, you should think about how _I'll_ feel. You want to impress _me._ I won't hurt you, as long as you make me proud."

"I...can't…" Malcolm says, and John pets down his back, makes him jerk.

"You can. You will. Like I said, take your time." He sits down beside him, making himself comfortable. "Whenever you're ready."

Malcolm doesn't know how long he can hold this hunched over position. It _hurts._ His hand, his side and chest, his knees, _everything._

He groans softly, shifting, and John flicks beside his ear and says, "Stay still. You're not supposed to be comfortable. That'll come when you're done here. Then you come upstairs, and you sleep, and you heal.”

Malcolm stops. He breathes hard through his teeth, and shakes his head.

"You've been doing good. You told me yesterday you were ready to make it better. This is how! This is your chance. Come _on._ "

"I _can't!"_ Malcolm whispers. He’s far too scared to look anywhere _near_ the man’s eyes anymore, but he tilts his head in John’s direction. "I c-can't. Please. Please? Please, I’ll...I’ll d-do anything, please."

John settles his hand in Malcolm's hair again. "Then do this. It's so easy, I promise. So easy. The blood...it's beautiful. You'll see. You’ll remember. I know you liked it back then, too. You were just scared. You don’t have to be scared anymore. Nobody will even miss her! No family pictures in her wallet, just a couple contacts in her phone. She's no one. Just like we used to be.”

She's so... _small_ , sprawled in front of him. Early twenties, at the very oldest. He wonders what her name is. John is wrong. Someone would miss her. Someone would mourn. And it will be his fault. 

_'Malcolm_ ,' The Girl hisses in his ear, and he flinches, ducking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her quietly. She’d had a family, too. She’d had—

_‘Please. I...I need to go home. To my mom, my sister—'_

He opens his eyes with a gasp. He doesn’t—he doesn’t remember—had he _talked_ to her? When? 

The station wagon. He remembers the smell of the seats, vaguely. What he’d recalled before—hiding inside of it, before he could think of why he shouldn’t be there. 

_‘Malcolm...please. Help me.’_

“W-wait—” he chokes out, curling his fingers against the cold stone. “Wait, _wait…_ ”

“Wait for what, hmm? What are you seeing?”

Malcolm pants, frowning, and tries to get his thoughts in order just enough to speak. “No, no…I...I didn’t…she was…”

"Oh, little one,” John says. “You’re suffering. You don't _have_ to, though. You know, I'll tell you something. I had such a terrible time after you got Martin arrested. Really. Just awful. I lost myself. I didn't know what to do. I prayed. I went to church every night, hoping I'd hear the answer. I became depressed. I'd never killed before without his guidance, but I wanted to. I ached for it. Soon you'll feel the same way. You'll _need_ it."

" _Wait_ ," Malcolm says again, and John covers his mouth, pinches his nose shut. 

"I'm talking. Don't _ever_ interrupt me again. It was a few months, but...then I saw her. She was praying, too, but I could tell she didn't mean it. True evil. I took her, because that’s why she was there. That’s _why_ I was there. Things happen because He wants them to. So I made her tell me, tell _Him,_ what she did, the drugs she abused, the child she left to fend for himself. Just like my disgusting mother. I let her beg Him for forgiveness for a few days. And then I crushed her. She liked _junk_ so much, so hell, that’s exactly what I made her into. It just fits, doesn’t it? I listened to her scream and beg and _die._ It was what she deserved. It felt _good_ to do what He wanted. And I didn't even need Martin's help. _I_ did it.”

Malcolm arches his back, tries to jerk his head free. His chest burns and heaves, but he forces his shaking hands to stay down. 

"That's right," John praises him, "good boy. You belong to _me_ now. You'll breathe when I _let_ you. And you'll kill her, because I'm telling you to. I know you're scared, but that's okay. You won't be after a while. It's what you were born to do. It's in your blood. Oh, we're going to do so much in His name, little Malcolm. You'll understand, in time. You'll learn what I know. I'll teach you. I'll be so good to you...if you're good to me."

He releases him, and Malcolm gasps, falling forward. John rubs his back and shushes him, like he wasn't the one to just _smother_ him, and Malcolm just wants him to _stop..._ wants all of this to please, please, _please stop…_

Still, after he catches his breath, Malcolm shakes his head. He may be broken—he was never together in the first place—but there’s nothing John could offer _him_ that would be worth someone _else’s_ life. 

John scoffs. "No? Are you _fucking_ with me? Did you hear _anything_ I said?”

"Y-yeah,” Malcolm says. "But...c-can’t. Won't d-do it. S-sorry."

"You're _sorry._ ” He digs his nails into Malcolm's arm, then roughly takes a handful of his hair. "Not sorry yet. Not really."

Malcolm closes his eyes. He prepares himself for another beating, or for John to make good on any of his previous threats.

And then John hums. He gets to his knees, moves behind Malcolm again—

And grabs onto Malcolm's hips with both hands.

"You _forget_ , little Malcolm," John says, pulling him flush against his front. "I _know_ how to make you sorry. I know what'll snap you in _two_."

Malcolm lets out a cry. For a moment he can't move, overwhelmed by the shock and fear. It chokes him, sends sparks up and down his spine and renders him immobile. It suddenly feels even _less_ like his own body, feels like it's happening to someone else and he's miles away. He only wishes he was. But he's not. He's _not—wake up!—_ and he manages at last to try and pull away. "No!"

John only holds onto him tighter, jump-starts his heart into panicked pounding. " _Yes_. I've known this whole time. Do you think I can't read you, too? You stupid little thing. Your eyes give away _everything._ Are you really going to make me do it?" 

It's not easier to move, now, but it's more important. Every second that passes only intensifies his panic, and Malcolm frantically scrabbles at the floor, kicks out, headless of the pain in any part of him because suddenly it doesn't matter, only _getting away_ does. "No, _no—_ please—I'll—be good, I'll be _s-so good_ , I'll—"

"Oh yeah? Good. Then kill her."

Malcolm moans, shaking his head, and then wails as John grabs the back of his neck and pushes his face down to the floor, leaning over him. 

"No, John, _stop—"_

And then John reaches around, tugging at Malcolm's waistband, his hand slipping inside and down to where it _shouldn't fucking be._

"Oh, my Malcolm," he murmurs, grasping ahold of him, and Malcolm screams, bucking backwards and screaming _louder_ when that does nothing to stop it. "I've done so much good...and I know He wants me to break you. I thought I did, but...if _this_ is what I'm supposed to do…if this is what I _have_ to do...oh, don't you think I won't. You're mine…but maybe not _enough."_

"S-stop!" Malcolm shouts, slapping at John's arm and tugging on his sleeve, but he's just not _strong enough_. " _Stop!_ No! P- _please_ —let go! I—I can't— _breathe_ —"

"It must be," John says, "because I told you not to disobey me again, and yet...here we are. Do you _want_ me to? Is that it? You've been _teasing_ me, all this time…"

Malcolm retches, gasping as he spits, and yanks on his shackles, further cuts the metal into his wrists and doesn't feel the pain. Not this. _Not this._ Anything else, _anything—_ no, not killing either, God, anything _else—_

There _is_ nothing else. 

The realization that _this_ is what he has to choose between nearly stops his heart, and he struggles harder. "No! Stop! Help me! _Help!"_

"Oh, but there's no one here. And I know Martin taught you well, so you know just how _easy_ the human body is manipulated. You know that if I do _this_ enough...just like that..."

Malcolm cries out again, brokenly, burying his face against his arm and sobbing. "No, no, oh, my God— _please no—stop—"_

John doesn't. He just _coos._ "That's it… _good_ boy. You see? It's a physical reaction. It doesn't matter what you want. I can break you down anyways. And I can do it again, and again, and _again,_ until you're so completely mine that you forget anyone but me even _exists_ , unless you pick one of those up and _kill her!"_

Malcolm cries harder, and something in him _shatters_ , because he already knows that he can't. No—he _could_ , but he _won't_. He won't do it. It's not worth it. Not even to stop this. It's _not worth it_. _He's_ not worth it. Maybe…maybe this is even what he deserves. Maybe for what he did, for his father, for his family, his friends, the people he solved cases too late to save, The Girl— _this_ is atonement.

John's mouth is at his ear as he pulls Malcolm closer, breathing harder, interest disgustingly noticeable against his backside, and Malcolm is _terrified_. He's humiliated. He's already in _pieces_.

But he won’t kill to save himself. He won't kill, _period_. He won't. Not ever again. 

So he steels himself against the floor and whispers, " _No_."

Everything stops. His heart thuds painfully hard in his chest. 

" _What?"_ John demands, and sounds genuinely taken aback.

Malcolm takes a wheezing breath, and then shakes his head. John's hand is _so cold,_ please, God, _make it_ _stop—_

But this is his sacrifice. It has to be. 

"Y-you do—do w-whatever you're g-gonna do," he finally manages. "No. I...I won't. N-not again. _No_."

Out of everything he expects to happen next, John _releasing_ him isn't one of them. But John stands up, breathing heavily, and then kicks him hard, topples him over onto his side.

"You said you'd be good," he growls. "You _stupid fucking boy._ I should have known. You're nothing but a liar! Why did I believe it'd be so easy?"

Malcolm lays still. He doesn't know what else he _can_ do. He can't feel a damn thing.

John stalks over to the woman, kicking her, too, and she moans. The noise snaps Malcolm back to himself, just enough. She's alive. Still alive.

And then John grabs for the hammer, and Malcolm's eyes widen, but it's not Malcolm who's the target.

Instead, he goes to _her_ side and swings it down on her shoulder.

Bone cracks, loud enough to hear. She screams, at the same time Malcolm does, and then John hits her again, and again, and she's quiet.

" _Stop!"_

John snickers, looking back at him.

"Oh,” John says, touching the blood-soaked head of the hammer. “Did you think you were _saving_ her? Did you think you were being _brave?_ " 

_‘No—I was tr—tryin’ to—'_

_'Save her? Oh, my boy. My foolish boy. It's a good thing you failed.'_

Malcolm stares up at him, and The Girl is there, too. She moves closer, until she's all he sees. 

_'Malcolm...help me. Help me!'_

He’d tried—he’d _tried,_ he—

Something slams down on his wounded hand, and he screams, so loudly his voice gives out, and he's left writhing in near-silence.

John tosses the hammer down and punches him across the face, then pins him to the floor with his weight and hits him again, and again, until he's choking on his own blood as it spills out of his mouth. 

"I'm going to slit her throat," John says, grabbing his cheeks, and Malcolm can _still feel him_ against his thigh, especially as John starts to shift around on him. "You're going to _watch._ You're going to _touch._ Feel how _warm_ it is. Watch her face as she dies. And then I'm going to _ruin_ you. Right here. Right in front of that camera, so I can _treasure_ it. And you know what? Maybe I'll send that out, too. Let them all hear you scream a _different_ way."

He grins viciously, forces Malcolm's mouth open, and violently shoves his bloody fingers in, gagging him. "Oh, little Malcolm—Martin never—you're _mine._ You're mine. Can't stop _thinking_ about you—such a _pretty_ _mouth—_ gonna take it just like this, with my—" 

Malcolm sucks air in through his nose, and then bites down with every bit of strength he still has.

John yelps, trying to yank back, and Malcolm clenches his teeth down harder, feels skin split beneath them as his only goal becomes taking John's _fucking fingers off._ When John finally manages to hit him hard enough to slip free, they're unfortunately still attached, but blood is pouring down his hand, and for once it's not Malcolm's. And Malcolm is _proud_. He might even grin. He hopes he's gotten the point across of what he plans to do should anything ever get put there again.

John stares down at his hand, like he's _surprised._ And then he scowls, and punches Malcolm again, and _again._

And then he wraps his hands around Malcolm's throat and squeezes, so hard that Malcolm thinks it's going to snap his neck. He coughs in the moment before his airway is cut off, speckling John's face with red, and then he can do _nothing_ but stare up at John's terrifying fury as his empty lungs scream, as the pain and panic overtake his body, as his head feels like it's going to explode, as his vision starts to darken.

He's going to die. 

Suddenly, he doesn't _want_ to die. 

And he's never, _ever_ been more afraid, because there's not one damn single thing he can do to stop it.

His limbs jerk, and he kicks out. He hears John swear, hears _you filthy little whore_ and so many other awful, terrible things that they all eventually fade into one another.

But then he doesn't hear John anymore. He hears the blood rushing in his head, his heart thrumming, and then he doesn't hear them, either.

His chest doesn't hurt anymore. Nothing does. He's rather okay with it.

For a second, he is nowhere.

And then he jolts, and his eyes open wide, and he desperately drags in oxygen. It hurts. It really, _really_ hurts, feels more like icicles stabbing through him than relief. He wants to go back where there was no pain.

Instead he breathes. Shallow, heaving gulps that echo in his head.

His chest throbs, a different kind than what he's felt before. Arms wrap around him, pulling him up, and he vomits and then breathes just a little easier.

John mumbles right in his ear, "I thought I killed you."

He keeps breathing, and his head lolls back. He stares up at the sky, and snow falls on his cheeks, flakes melting into tears that run down to his chin. 

John is cradling him like he's _precious_ , muttering something else. Something about signs from God, his mission. He kisses Malcolm's temple, and his forehead, and then continues incoherently cooing to him.

Malcolm breathes. It's all he can do. All he _needs_ to do. Not to listen. Not to think. Just to breathe.

_In, out. In, out. In, out._

The Girl touches his cheek, whispers his name. It means nothing.

_In, out. In, out._

He breathes, even as his eyes close. Even as things fade, and he can hear nothing but the rumble in his chest, and then not even that.

_In_ , _out_.

**x**

She's dead.

All he can smell is blood. It's metallic on his tongue, heavy in his aching lungs. Suffocating. Making it harder to breathe. 

She has to be dead. He hasn't yet been able to open his eyes and look, but he also hasn't heard her make any noise. 

He tried. He tried so hard. He'd even thought that...that maybe if John hurt _him_ , maybe he wouldn't—

But he's a fool for that. He's a goddamn fool. It hadn't been good enough. _He_ hadn't. He _isn't._ Just like he’d known from the start, he’s still killed her.

He's so _sore_. He can no longer move his left arm at all. His mouth hurts from the blows, and inside, where John's nails had scratched and prodded. 

It hurts everywhere John touched. Hurts badly. Hurts even worse that he responded to it. Just a reaction…maybe. Not what he wanted...or was. He doesn't know anything anymore, except that it hurts.

There, and very deep in his chest. Past the pain in his lungs, his ribs. He can't pinpoint it. 

Just...somewhere. Just hurts. Worse than the rest of it. Brings back memories he thought were long buried of experimenting with the wrong people in college, people who didn't listen to him, who were too rough with him, who didn't _stop._

But those had been _his own fault._ He’d been on sedatives, or drunk. Once...or maybe twice, he thinks. Maybe more, or maybe none at all. His memory isn't to be trusted, so who really knew? He’d been too doped up at the time to really form a memory at all. He knows he'd been desperate for attention, for affection, for _anything,_ and he'd gotten it. His own fault. 

This...this is his fault, too, though, isn’t it? He’d followed John. He’d gone out alone. He could have so easily called for back-up. He could have so easily just _answered Gil’s call._ Maybe he’d wanted to get kidnapped. Maybe he’d wanted _all_ of this. He’d certainly wanted answers, and so he was getting them. What did the rest of it matter, right? All his fault. Everything. He was just a—

_Filthy little whore._

He cries, long after tears stop coming. He throws up until he tastes fresh blood. He thinks about how the _girl's_ blood had been on John's hand, in his _mouth_ , and he cries a little more before falling asleep again. 

And then he finally opens his eyes—one of them, anyway, as the other remains swollen shut—and looks at her.

And her hand twitches.

He freezes. 

"H...llo?" he manages, and his throat is so raw that he can barely whisper. 

She doesn't move again, and Malcolm isn't sure she ever did. What can he remember…? John had hit her shoulder…maybe her chest, maybe her ribs, but...

He realizes only then that he never actually saw John finish it. He never saw a final blow. And there's blood around her, but not as much as there had been from Shannon. John hadn't taken his knife to her yet. 

Weakly, he straightens up. His head pounds. He thinks John took the camera, but the big light is still on and pointed at him, and he still hasn't gotten used to it.

He blindly reaches out. Touches the saw and jerks back. No, not that. Her. He needs her. 

He grabs onto her shoe, and shakes it. 

Nothing. 

He can't stretch any further. It already hurts him to be here.

He needs to get free. If she's alive, he can still save her. It's not just about him anymore. This is more _important_ than just him.

And it's more than important _for_ him, too. Because he knows what's going to happen if he's still here when John comes back.

He sobs quietly, just once, and then fists his hand, shakes himself. _Focus._ He has to _focus._

He forces his eye open again. John hadn't cleaned up. He'd just...left. The tools are still scattered, though most no longer within reach.

He looks for something, pinpoints the screwdriver, but it's too far away. Further, the pliers. Even further, his fucking sanity.

Suddenly, his blurred vision lands on the hammer. It's closer to him than anything else, and he closes his fingers around it. The metal is covered in blood. Everything in this room is covered in _blood._

He somehow, somehow manages to sit up. It takes too much time. He doesn't know how much he has, but it's _running out._

Panting, he drags his hand into place with the other, and taps the hammer against the cuff. Then he raises it, and tries to hit his mark.

It smacks against the stone. He aims again, and again misses. He can't position himself correctly, can't get enough leverage in his swing to break it anyway. 

He hears something upstairs. It makes his heart drop through to the floor, and he breaks out in a cold sweat, and he—he can't stay here, he _can't_ —has to escape, run, _get away—_

He doesn't think. He doesn't even really know what he's _doing_ until suddenly the hammer is slamming down on his thumb, smashing it, and he shrieks. He clutches at it, and then yells and furiously hits it again. This time he comes to sometime after, slumped over himself, his fingers still loosely folded around the grip of the tool. 

Stupid fucking hands...done nothing but hurt and _kill_...he deserves worse... _they_ do...

Vaguely, he hears someone whisper his name. 

He flinches, and looks up. He can't tell if she's moved. Had it been her, or The Girl? Or John…? Had he come back to—

To—

He pants, and forces his head to stay up. He tugs on the shackle, wailing as he folds his fingers, pulls his thumb into a position it wouldn’t have gone before, and tugs again. So close. So close. It scratches down swollen skin, peels it away, squeezes the stab wound, and he pulls harder. It hurts him enough he screams himself hoarse, muffling it against his shoulder, and he _keeps pulling_.

And then he jerks, and gasps. His arm falls back down, and the shackle stays in his grip. His wrist bleeds, the back of his hand gushes, and—

And his hand is free. 

He lets out a sob of utter relief. He yanks the chain up, beats the hammer against the cuff until it breaks off, until he can slip the chain out from the connecting ring in the middle.

It drags on the floor, and he stares down at it. Free...he's free, he can—

_'Help me, Malcolm…'_

He braces himself on the floor and retches, and then crawls over to the woman, whimpering.

"H...hello? Hello? Hey—h-h-hey, are you—"

She jerks upright with an inhuman screech, grabs onto his throat, and he screams, slapping her away and scrambling backwards. No, no, _no_ —has to leave, has to _get away!_

He grabs onto the hammer, clutching his wounded hand against his chest, and desperately begins trying to stand. The woman groans his name behind him, and though his knees give out twice, and the tortured bottoms of his feet against the ground is almost too much for him to handle, he staggers to the stairs. 

The door isn't locked. There's not supposed to be any way for Malcolm to be up here. But he is. He is. He can go home. He just wants to go _home._

But they won't want him home. They'd rather he die out here. He doesn't deserve to go home. Filthy dirty _murderer._

He pushes it open. He thinks about bringing the hammer down onto John’s head, thinks about _finishing this._

And then hands grab at him, and he screams, he _runs_. 

He doesn't stop. He can't. He has to get away.

_'Malcolm,_ ' she whispers, and he swings the hammer out towards her, nearly hits himself as he does. 

"No! No, no!" 

_'Help me, Malcolm. I don't want to die_.'

He runs faster. He drops the hammer, or maybe he never had it at all. He slams through branches and bushes that cut through his shirt and pants, but he doesn't feel the pain. He can't feel anything but _fear_ , can't hear anything but them, but _her_. 

_'Malcolm!'_

The chain still hanging from his wrist catches on something, and it jerks him back and to a sudden halt. The world tilts, spins out of focus, and hands are on him again, pulling at him as he desperately tries to tug free.

“No! N-no, l-l-leave—leave me— _alone!”_

They _don’t._ The Girl grabs his ankle, and he's underwater again, choking, uselessly reaching up. No. She can't take him—please— _no—_

The chain pulls free, and he hits solid ground again, gasping. She's above him, and he scrambles back, takes off again.

He can't outrun her, can't outrun any of them. He hears them whispering, calling out to him in the wind.

_‘Murderer.’_

He climbs up an incline, staggers, and collapses. He tries to break his fall with the wrong hand, and the pain makes everything go white.

His eye flutters open, and then closes again. He hears his own gasping breaths, and a rumbling in the distance. 

And then it’s quiet, for just a few moments. His lungs burn despite how fast he’s trying to heave breaths in, and he just can’t run anymore. The adrenaline that had been keeping him on his feet starts to fade, and he can’t stay _awake_ anymore.

There's a loud noise—sounds...sounds like the door of a _car,_ almost—and then someone is touching him, and he has no strength to cry out. 

_'Malcolm,_ ' she says, just a shadowy figure above him, and he can only whimper. She cups his cheek, pats him, and calls his name again.

She takes his wrist, feels under his neck for a pulse, and now he's confused. Feels different...not like her...

"Malcolm!"

It doesn't even sound like her anymore. Sounds like...almost sounds like…

He blinks hard. The shadow above him isn't so dark anymore.

"My boy," it says. "Oh, _Malcolm_. There you are."

"Dad…?" he mumbles, and it smiles. 

It sure looks an awful lot like his father. 

But it's not, because it can't be. It's not real, _nothing_ is _real._ He's dying, or it's John. He hopes that he's dying. 

He's lifted up, and his head falls back, listless. The Girl is watching him from the treeline. The sunlight behind her...so pretty, through the trees…

And then he's underwater again, but there's no one dragging him down. His chest doesn't ache for air, and he doesn't fight for the surface.

He feels her, but this time she takes his hand.

_'I'm here,'_ she says. She sounds so familiar. Like someone he knows, or did, so long ago. 

_'It's okay, Malcolm.'_

He lets his eyes close, and sinks down into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: 
> 
> Malcolm does not, in fact, die, despite wishing he did, John graduates from The School of Creepy with the honorable title of "Actual Fucking Predator", there's an eSCAPE (and THAT promo pic happens). Also oh my God, wait, is that MARTIN—


	17. All The Difference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This’ll be the last update before Monday! TWO DAYS AWAY!! Aaah I can’t believe...this was never really supposed to end up being so long and involved and go PAST the premiere, but it was also never supposed to get so much love and support, so I’m thrilled about both :3 Thank you guys so much, and there’s a LOT left I have planned! Especially 18...you know, if we’re all still alive after the new episode...rip…
> 
> Thank you guys, seriously. I’m glad we could help each other through the pain of this hiatus x) Now...onto the beginning of the parts I've been excited for since we started...ENJOY!
> 
> TW for implied/referenced severe child abuse in the first flashback, a brief implication (just a few words) of animal abuse/death, and also VERY INTENSE gaslighting, manipulation, and emotional abuse throughout the rest. Seriously, it's bad. And something else I’m not sure how to tag, which is like...brainwashing? Between past Martin and Malcolm. It’s genuinely fucking horrifying. It's psychological torture, is what it is. Please be aware of that.

The rotten man is yelling for him again. 

It's easier to ignore now. There's no pounding footsteps on the stairs, or sudden burst through the door followed by being belted into the ground. 

No, the rotten man is _tired._ He's sick. Dying. He's getting worse, day by day.

And it makes Martin very, very happy. 

No other time in his life has he been free of abuse for so long. He feels _spoiled_ to be able to move without pain. He'd even stayed in school the full week! And he likes school. Not much the people—mostly they ignore him, anyway—but he likes to learn. He likes science, especially. He hears that next year they'll start dissecting things. 

He's ahead of them on that. They'd had an old alley cat that hung out outside the house at some point, but he forgets where he buried it. 

His father screams his name again. Martin flinches, doesn't think he ever _won't_ , but still ignores it, lying comfortably on the carpet and flipping through one of the medical textbooks he checked out from the library. He doesn't understand much of what they're saying, yet, but he hopes one day he can. For now, he especially loves the pictures and diagrams, but he wishes they were more detailed. He thinks it would be even better if they were _real_ , instead of drawings. There's probably a library book with those somewhere, right? He'll have to look into that next time he goes.

There's a clatter downstairs, and Martin sits up, his heart suddenly pounding. He closes the book, shoves it under his bed, and slides himself in beside it.

It won't help. It never does. He'll just be dragged right back out. But it makes him feel a little better to try. 

He covers his head, and waits.

And waits.

And then opens his eyes again, confused. 

The stairs and the hall are quiet. 

Martin frowns. Relieved, of course...or maybe more afraid. 

Sometimes, the man plays games. He likes to toy with Martin, maybe even convince him there won't be any pain, just to catch him by surprise later and laugh at how that hurts him more than anything. He'll tell Martin that it's okay, that he's been good, that he won't be punished, and then attack him. The man has _fun_ with it, and he's told Martin so. He's happy that Martin lives in fear, more happy than he is when Martin bleeds. 

Other times, the man gets drunk or high or both and talks about his mother. He tells Martin how much he looks like her. And Martin far prefers the beatings to those times. 

It's his fault, he knows, because he'd _killed_ his mother. He hadn't meant to. It had happened when he was born, and he'd never asked for that to happen. So really, it was her own fault.

But it's still probably fine for him to be blamed, because there's no one else. And if she was anything like the man, then he's glad she's gone. He doesn’t think he’d still be alive if he had _two_ people to hurt him this much.

He slowly gets back to his feet, and dares to open the door. He half expects the man's hand to reach out from around the corner and grab his throat. 

It doesn't, though. He remembers that the man hasn't been able to climb the stairs for weeks. He remembers the cancer has spread to his blood, and that it's only a matter of time before he's finally gone.

He hears his name again, but it's different. It's not yelled. It's a groan, weak, like the man rasps out his mother's name while asleep, or when…

He grips tight to the bannister. After a moment, he swallows hard, and takes one step at a time until his bare feet hit dirty tile. 

"Max…"

Maxine. Her name. He hates hearing it. It makes him sick inside.

He peers into the living room, and finds his father collapsed on the floor. 

Martin tilts his head. He hadn't heard any of the strange people come over to give the man what made him like this. He always listens, so he knows when to leave, to hop out his bedroom window with the bag he keeps in his closet, because sleeping a night in the park nearby is far better than what tends to happen when he stays. 

He moves a little closer. The man is still breathing, unfortunately, but he doesn't move. He's gotten sick, and pissed himself, and Martin smiles, because that means the man is weak, that he’s _suffering._ And Martin wants him to suffer, more than anything.

"Yes?" he asks, mostly to test if the man is awake. There's no response, and so Martin rounds him, really takes in his state and giggles in delight. Death can't be very far off, now. A few days? A week? Martin probably wouldn't mind it if it looks like this, because that would be fun, _very_ fun, to just _watch_. 

Martin wants to make it worse. So he steps on the man's hand. 

"You _fuck—_ " the man hisses, reaching out with the other, and Martin screams, darts behind the couch and cowers. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry—_ ” he mumbles, covering his head, expecting blows to rain down on it, but...

But they don’t. Martin stays where he is for a moment, catching his breath, and then peers over the back of the couch, grips onto it as he stares down at the man. 

He never moved. 

And Martin suddenly realizes the man _can’t_ move.

Adrenaline sparking through him, a grin spreading across his face, Martin approaches again, albeit gingerly. He steps on the man's fingers even harder.

The man groans. "I'll fuckin'..." he says, and then vomits again. 

He can’t get up. He _can’t._ Martin never has to run away again. 

"I hate you," Martin says, and stomps down on the hands that have done nothing but hurt him. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” 

The man grunts something out, and so Martin tells him to shut up and kicks him right in the head. And it feels good, so he does it again.

"Fuck you," he sings, happily. "Fuck you! Ugly stupid asshole. What're you gonna do? You're gonna die. You're gonna die, just like Mom."

No answer. Still some wheezing breaths, though, and Martin wonders if he should kick harder. The man never considered _his_ actions. He just kept kicking and beating until all Martin saw was blood and darkness. 

And now? Now he can't. Martin could kill him, so _easily._ Martin could kick and hit until there’s nothing left. He _wants to._ He _should._

And then suddenly he's crying, _sobbing,_ so hard he staggers and falls back against the wall. He laughs, and cries again, and then runs back up to his room, shutting himself into his closet. 

He doesn't understand how he can be so happy and so _fucking_ _sad_ at the same time. He doesn't even know why he's sad at all. It can stop now! He never has to be hurt again. The man can never touch him again. No more pain. Finally, _finally_ , no more pain. It can stop. It can finally... _finally stop._

The man dies three days later, still in the same spot. His rasping breaths slow, then fade away into silence. 

And Martin watches, with a smile on his face and, for some reason, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

**x**

Looking at her across the table, his chin resting in his hand, Martin knows she’s the one. 

She’s beautiful, but that’s not it. Martin could have anyone _beautiful_ that he wanted. He _has._

This one is _loyal._ This one wants to please him like no other. This one Martin wants to _keep._ He wants to have her, unlike the others. They could have died, and he wouldn’t have cared. Some of them _had_ died. He’d liked seeing their insides as much as the out.

He doesn’t want to kill her. He wants to do what he can to keep her _alive,_ in fact. 

It’s really a peculiar feeling. He’s not sure what to do with it. 

She notices him staring, and smiles around the rim of her glass. “What?”

“You’re the light of my life,” Martin replies without missing a beat, and she flushes as pink as her wine. 

So easy to control, just with his words, from the very beginning. He’s never had to try so _little_ to get what he wants. She just... _gives_ it to him. Gives him more, gives him everything she can. And he admires her for that. He’s not a _hard_ man to please, but she’s time and time again gone above and beyond anything he’s asked for.

“Oh, Martin,” she says. “I love you.”

He smiles. He doesn’t feel anything. Never has. Doesn’t ever really expect to.

But he’s always been such a good liar, and she suspects nothing as he dutifully replies, “I love you, too, my darling.” 

**x**

He wants a son. 

He’s _always_ wanted a son, as long as he can remember, and even more so now with the way his career is going. He’s going to be the best before anyone knows it, already is, and he wants someone to pass it down to. He wants to pass _everything_ he does down. He can imagine it...a beautiful little him, standing beside him, helping him with his work. Helping him experiment, helping him contribute to science itself.

Jessica wants children. Martin wants to _give_ them to her. They're a perfect match. 

Until they try, and it doesn't happen. They try again, a third time, and still fail. 

Martin starts to get bored. She's young, and shouldn't be having such trouble. If she can't bear him a child, then there's really no reason for him to stay with her. He'll just have to find someone else, whether or not they're as eager. 

And then he comes home from a particularly exhausting day at work, and she's waiting for him with a grin on her face and a little white stick in her hand.

"Martin…"

"No," he says, and starts to smile. "Really?" 

She nods, laughs at the same time he does, and oh, he's _never_ loved her like this. He drops his things, doesn’t care about _anything else,_ and whisks her up in a hug, spins her around and kisses her hard. 

"We did it," she whispers, nuzzling against his neck, and he holds her close. "What do you want?" 

"A boy," he says. He knows they won't know the gender for quite some time, nearing week twenty. But if there's any good in this world, and he thinks maybe there's a _bit,_ it'll be just what he's always dreamed. 

"Oh, a beautiful boy," Jessica says, dreamily. "I'd love that. I love you."

"I love you," Martin repeats, pressing little bites of affection down her neck. He's never wanted her _so much_. "God, I love you." 

He sweeps her up into his arms, and she giggles, kisses at his collarbone while he carries her up the stairs, and he's never reacted so positively, never _needed_ her this _badly._

This can work. This is what he wants. She's _perfect_ again. 

And to show her, he proposes a week later with the best ring money can buy. She says yes, because of course she does. She's his. So wonderfully, beautiful his.

And carrying his child. _His child._ He's going to be a father. 

Oh, he's going to be such a _good_ father.

**x**

She's not careful enough.

Martin wants her to stay inside. Martin wants her to stop doing _anything._ He wants her to lay in bed and let him take care of her.

Instead, Jessica goes to gatherings. She goes to art galleries and parties just like she always has.

Except she's _not_ like she was. She's carrying his child, and she's not being _careful._

She has a glass of _wine_ when he comes to meet her after work, and, before he even greets her, he’s reaching to yank it out of her hand.

It slips between both of their fingers and drops, shattering on the floor. Jessica gasps, and a few people turns to glance at them.

" _Martin,_ " she says. “What was that?”

“Are you _drinking?_ ” he demands, and she looks at him like he’s absolutely lost his mind.

  
  
“It was _juice,_ Martin,” she tells him. “It was only juice. Do you think I’d do that to my baby?”

_Her baby._ His, it’s _his—_

He blinks, stares down at the mess by their feet, and then back at her. He relaxes his muscles, rolls his shoulders, and takes a breath. 

“Oh, Jessica,” he replies. "I'm...not sure why I did that. I’m sorry. I had _such_ a long day, I thought...I don’t know what I thought. I’m exhausted, my dear.”

“Oh, my love…” She cups his cheeks, kisses him gently. “You should go home.”

“But I’ve missed you,” he says, nuzzling against her, pressing a kiss above her ear. “I want to be with you. I can stay.” 

He lets out a long sigh into her hair, and she rubs his arm. 

“I’ve been to _so_ many of these, Martin...countless. There’s no real reason for me to stay. Come on. Let’s go.”

He’d known she would say that, but he pretends otherwise. He looks around, acts as if he’s about to protest, and she kisses him. It gives her the illusion that it’s her choice, when it never was to begin with.

“Come,” she says, and he follows. Well, really, _she_ follows. 

And when they’re lying in bed, and she’s fallen asleep, he slides his hand under the blanket and rests it over her belly. She’s not showing yet, but the very idea that his child is in there...is incredible. His baby. A daughter, maybe, but maybe a _son._

He thinks about how either could benefit him. He could create something wonderful in both. A confident, beautiful child, whatever gender they turned out as. He thinks about how beautiful a daughter from him and Jessica could be. She’d be just as good.

Maybe a son, though. Maybe a son.

**x**

Jessica starts to get sick around seven weeks. It’s only vomiting, simple morning sickness and nothing dangerous, but it lasts throughout the days and keeps her bedridden. Martin doesn’t like to hear her suffer, but he likes that she’s stopped going out. She stays here, and Martin knows that she and the baby are safe.

He gives her whatever he wants, because he _is_ a good husband. A perfect one. She’s lucky to have him, really. He goes out to get whatever she craves, rubs her feet when they hurt, and...well, he keeps her pleased in _every_ way. Why wouldn’t he? She’s doing so much for him. He wants her to be healthy, happy, and strong, so their child can be the same.

By the thirteenth week, the sickness subsides, but he manages to convince her to still mostly stay around the house. She loves him, trusts his every word, his _suggestions._ He’s turning out to be one of the very best doctors alive, isn’t he? He knows what he’s talking about. Maybe it’s a little biased by his own wants, but that really doesn’t matter, does it? He’s right, because he’s always right.

She has her own desires. She wants to go on walks, on drives, and because he’s a good man, a kind man, he lets her. He goes with her, calls them dates, and that makes her even happier. 

He doesn’t know if he’s happy, too, but he believes it’s something close. He thinks about her more than he did. He buys her gifts, treats her to surprises. One of the women he cuts into has a unique little necklace, and he has the strangest image in his head of how nice it would look on Jessica. And when he cleans the blood off, makes it good as new, and gifts it to her for their anniversary, she puts it on and _loves_ it.

She’s so blinded by her love for him. It’s the most wonderful thing about her. 

And he was right again, of course; the necklace looks perfect on her.

At the nineteenth week, the nurse holding the ultrasound wand to Jessica’s stomach smiles and says, “Congratulations. It’s a boy.”

And Martin _melts._ He cries. He doesn’t think he’s ever cried of happiness before, but tears stream uncontrollable down his face and drip into Jessica’s hair as he presses his lips to her forehead. A boy. A _son._ Everything he’s ever wanted, _his._

“A boy, Martin!” Jessica coos, holding him close, watching the screen. “Look at him. Our beautiful baby boy.”

He looks up, looks at his son. He’s beautiful. He’s Martin’s. He’s _perfect._

And he cries some more. Jessica teasingly calls him soft, and maybe he is. He can’t bring himself to care. 

Later that night, he rests his head on her stomach, and she runs her hands through his hair. She hums happily, but she can’t be anywhere near as happy as him. He’s _high._

“What do you think of Malcolm?” she asks, and he closes his eyes.

“Malcolm,” he says. They’d discussed other options, but none have felt so _right_ on his tongue. He says it again, just to be sure, and then nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.”

“Yes? Oh, Martin. I love you. So much.”

“I love you,” Martin repeats, placing his palm down beside where his cheek is. “And our boy.”

And quieter, to himself, to _Malcolm_ , “ _My boy._ ”

**x**

With his perfect, precious son snuggled up on his chest, fast asleep, Martin is truly happy. He's ecstatic, really. Euphoric. He’d thought he’d been happy in the last twenty weeks of the pregnancy, but it was _nothing_ compared to what he felt when his Malcolm was born, when he had held in his hands Malcolm's entire seven pounds and eight ounces and seen _himself_. Seen something so innocent and wondrous that he never wanted to let it go. 

He gives Malcolm everything. Everything he never had, everything that had been taken away from him. Malcolm will never know pain, if he has anything to say about it. Malcolm will never know hunger, or fear, or humiliation. He’ll never be struck, never be hurt. He won’t be abused, and then shoved into group home after group home until he finally aged out into the world. No, Martin will keep this boy, _his_ boy, safe. Safe, happy, and healthy.

Malcolm is so _beautiful._ Just barely four years old but already so smart, already learning to read and understanding things any other boy his age probably wouldn't.

But he's not any other boy. He's _Martin's_ boy. And that makes all the difference. 

He hears the new baby crying, but he knows Jessica will get her. She tends to react faster this time around, while she had sometimes let Malcolm cry. Martin still cares for her, probably, or at least doesn’t want to kill her, but the second Malcolm became separate, he knows it was really only ever Malcolm that he wanted. 

He _loves_ Malcolm. He's never felt it before. He's never _loved_ anything. But he _adores_ Malcolm, dotes on him, and loves the way it's made Malcolm cling to him every chance that comes along. He was _meant_ for Martin. Meant to _become_ him. And when he's older, Martin will teach him everything he needs to do that.

Ainsley quiets down. She's lovely, of course. She even has his nose. Martin is honored to have a daughter, but Malcolm is really all he needs. 

He thinks about the man he met at the hospital yesterday. Small and scared, more than a little pathetic. _Jumpy_. More than enough for Martin to recognize it, to know something had happened to him, too. It'd peaked his interest, and from the moment he saw the glint in those dark eyes when he'd mentioned the blood, he'd known John was just like him.

John had no friends. Martin could fix that. John had no purpose, and Martin could fix that, too. He cleaned for a living, and Martin just so happened to know someone who needed a man for that job. Science is _difficult_ work, after all. Always so messy. Martin gets bored after the hearts stop, but John seems like he'd enjoy the task. Martin thinks they'd work rather well together, given the chance.

Malcolm mumbles, nuzzling closer, and Martin strokes his boy's hair. 

"Ssh," he says. "Daddy's here. You're safe. I’ll keep you safe. You know that, don’t you?”

Malcolm sighs softly and goes still, and Martin takes it as approval. 

Really, Malcolm’s approval is the only one he’ll ever need.

**x**

John likes him, more than he probably should.

Martin's not blind. He’s seen where it's been going over the years. He'd even been _testing_ it, just a bit. Seeing what would cause the sudden increase in John’s breathing, or the dilation of his pupils. It seemed to be compliments, no matter how small, and so Martin stops giving them and studies just how _stressed_ John becomes as a result.

He stumbles over his words a little more, his eyes often darting to Martin’s whenever he speaks at all, like he wants to make sure he’s saying the right thing. Eventually, he even breaks enough that he asks Martin if there’s something he's done _wrong._

And Martin pretends he has no idea anything has changed at all, and smiles, and reassures John in the one way he knows won’t be reassuring at all.

" _You'd know if I was unhappy with you."_

It digs at John in noticable ways. He starts trying to please Martin _more._ He starts doing things he hadn't before. He brings Martin _gifts,_ like coffee to their meetings and, once, a new notebook, squirming on his feet while Martin looks it over the same way Malcolm does giving him his birthday presents, or cards for Father's Day, anxiously waiting for his appreciation.

And Martin likes it. Not the notebook, _John._ He says thank you, something he hasn’t done in months, and hears John exhale hard enough it’s like he hasn’t breathed in the same length of time. 

“Yeah,” John says, and rubs the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, I...okay. Yeah. Good. Okay. That’s good.”

He sounds like he’s forgotten how to speak at all, but he looks so _happy,_ and Martin is more intrigued by this all than he has been by anything in a long time. And when Martin knows exactly what buttons to push, John becomes nothing more than another toy, nothing more than _Martin’s._

And then eventually John kisses him, and Martin has to take a minute to think about that.

He knows that likely, John doesn't really _want_ him, not like this. It's lust, and nothing more. Had Martin been more emotional, he thinks he could have turned out similar. Being denied love as a child has destroyed them both, but in different ways. Martin’s become stronger because of it. John’s become weaker. Malleable. _Needy._

Still, Martin considers the repercussions of going down either path. 

He's done worse. He's slept with victims to lure them into thinking they were safe, because it was necessary. He's cheated on Jessica with people he _didn’t_ kill, either, and still doesn't feel guilty about it. If she couldn't provide what he wanted when he wanted it, he had to seek it elsewhere. It’s only natural. Men have needs.

And he likes John, because John’s a _fascinating_ little thing. So complicated, and yet, to Martin, so open. Martin's come to see him as his closest friend, and Martin has never cared for such a thing before. Looking John over while the younger man panics about his so-called _sin,_ Martin decides he wouldn’t mind it. And he knows that if he just says the word, John will give him anything he wants, no matter what his _God_ might think. He’d certainly be the most _attentive_ lay Martin's had. John would _worship_ him, if given the chance.

But he wants to keep John how he is now, in this state of desperation to please Martin. It's been going so _well._ Clearly, a bit _too_ well. But the moment John gets what he thinks he wants, Martin won't have anything left to use. It could lead to disinterest. Mistakes made. Maybe even disgust. John might realize it's not what he wants at all. He might _leave_ Martin. And Martin just won't have that. He won’t _risk_ that.

So he says no. Blames Jessica and Malcolm, as if he hasn't been perfect at keeping secrets from them so far, as if it has anything to do with them at all.

John looks so _wonderfully_ disappointed. Broken, almost. He still believes he's in love, as much as he thinks Martin doesn’t notice. He tries even _harder_ , like it might change Martin's mind.

And Martin makes it worse. He thinks it's amusing, the way John unconsciously reacts to his presence. How he always gets so close, but the second Martin lands a touch on his shoulder or arm, he skitters away like it hurts, chokes on his words or his breath. It’s _adorable,_ really. He really finds it a shame, after a while, that he can’t take advantage of John in all the ways he hasn’t yet. 

But he’s got far more self-control than John, and he’s always prided himself on that. 

That, and just how _easily_ he can manipulate people. Like it's nothing. Like _they're_ nothing.

They _are_ nothing. They’re in his life because he wants them to be, or they’re not alive at all.

Malcolm matters, Malcolm is _something_ , but no one else.

**x**

“And this,” Martin says, “is the ilium. And this part, the part that goes up, is called the iliac crest. Can you say iliac?”

His son shifts on his knee, gets closer to Martin’s desk and squints down at the diagram. “Mmm...a...lilac.”

Martin chuckles, gently kissing the back of Malcolm’s head, running his fingers through Malcolm's hair. “That’s a flower. _Iliac._ ”

“Ee...lac. Hmm. Ee...iliac,” he finally gets out, frowning. “Ilium.”

“Wonderful! Very good. My son is a _genius,_ isn’t he?” He tickles a finger up under Malcolm’s arm, and Malcolm giggles before sighing. He sounds... _depressed,_ and Martin tilts his head, leans to look at him. 

“What’s wrong, my boy?”

“You’re so _smart,_ ” Malcolm says, and sighs again. “But I dunno if I am! And I dunno if I even _wanna_ be a doctor, and—”

“Malcolm,” he interrupts. He won’t let his son talk about himself like that, not even for a moment. “My sweet boy. You are very, _very_ smart. You’re my son, aren’t you? Yes, you are. And you can be whatever you want!”

Malcolm looks back at him, confused, like he’d never considered that an option before. They’ve never really talked about career goals, not seriously, but Martin wouldn’t mind if he never had one at all, if he just stayed by Martin’s side forever and helped him from there. 

“But...you’re teachin’ me for doctoring."

Martin smiles. Oh, if only he could explain. But Malcolm is only eight. Not yet. He’s still a bit too sensitive for Martin's liking, but Martin is doing what he can to change that. “I’m teaching you because it’s _interesting._ Don’t you think so?” 

Malcolm nods quickly. Martin _thinks_ he’s being truthful, but then, it doesn’t really matter. Malcolm would have said yes either way, because he always says yes to Martin. There’s not a thing in the world Martin could ask him to do that he wouldn’t happily agree to, and time and time again he's proved it.

Still, Martin likes to make sure. 

He closes his study, scratching at his beard. “We don’t have to, you know. If you’d prefer to go play, you can. I just thought you liked to spend time with me down here. If you don’t…”

“Daddy!” Malcolm says, looking _horrified,_ and he wraps his arms around Martin in a hug. “I do! I love you! No, don’t look sad!” 

“ _Really,_ Malcolm. It’s nothing. I’m not sad, my boy. It’s all okay. We can do something else, hmm?” 

He lifts Malcolm up, places him on his feet, and takes the notebook, heaving out a breath as he puts it back on the shelf behind him, hearing Malcolm stomp his foot on the floor.

“I didn’t mean to bore you, Malcolm. I’d never want that. Oh, I really should have known…you’re getting older now, and...well, it’s only natural not to want to spend your afternoons down here with your old dad.”

“Stop, stop!” Malcolm says, coming to cling onto his waist. “Dad, stop—”

“Malcolm, it’s _fine!_ Really! I knew that you'd...well…” He gestures vaguely with a hand. “Drift away from me, eventually. I didn’t think it’d happen so soon, but...no matter. If you like, we can—”

He stops, because suddenly he realizes Malcolm is crying, his face buried against Martin’s hip, his shoulders shaking. 

Martin gets to one knee, pulls him back and cups his cheeks. “My boy...what’s wrong?”

“Daddy,” Malcolm whimpers, looking up at him, his bottom lip trembling. “Don’t say that stuff! Please? Please, I _love_ you! I don’t wanna go anywhere else! I wanna stay down here with you. Please...”

“Oh, Malcolm,” Martin says, wiping tears away with his thumbs. “I just want you to be happy. If you’re not happy with me…”

“ _Stop!_ ” Malcolm pleads, and starts to cry harder, so much he can barely speak. “I-I am! I am! P-p-please stop! I don’t wanna leave. I wanna learn more! I love you teachin’ me! I’ll—I’ll—”

“Ssh, my boy.” He brings Malcolm close, hugs him tight, and Malcolm buries his face in Martin’s shoulder. “I want to do what you want. Are you sure it’s this? That it’s me? You hardly ever spend time with your mother, your sister, your friends…”

Malcolm shakes his head. “I love you most! I do! I wanna stay here. Please let me. Please? I don’t wanna stop.”

Martin smiles. He picks Malcolm up in his arms, and brings him back to his chair. Malcolm snuggles up against him as soon as he’s sitting, fits his head under Martin’s chin and sniffles. 

“Anything you want, Malcolm,” Martin says. “If you want this, then I’d never stop. I just want you to be happy. Are you happy, when we’re together?”

Malcolm nods, fisting both hands in Martin’s cardigan. “ _Yes._ I’m happy. I don’t wanna go, not ever!”

“Good boy,” Martin says. But he’d known that already. Of course Malcolm’s a good boy. _His_ boy. “You want to learn, don’t you?”

Another nod, another yes, but he’d known that already, too.

He reaches down to the drawer of his desk, opens it, and takes out a box. Malcolm’s breathing hitches, his eyes going a little wider, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Do you think we could try looking at these again, then?”

“I—I don’t like those,” Malcolm says, holding onto him tighter. “I really don’t…”

Martin strokes through his hair, trying to keep him calm. “My boy, they’re just pictures. Just like my drawings! You know I base those off of real life, right?”

“Please, I…” Malcolm squirms, sits up a little, and starts looking over towards the door. “I don’t…”

Martin pulls out the top stack of polaroids, unwraps the rubber band from them, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes closed.

“I’ve shown you some before, Malcolm! Come on. Really, they’re nothing.”

“I want the drawings,” Malcolm says, and his voice is higher, cracking in fear. “D...Dad, please...don’t make me look at those. They’re...d...dead.”

“Death is a part of life, my boy,” Martin says. He flicks through the pictures, always making sure they’re still as tame as he remembers. But they’re nothing terrible. Just from the neck up. He’s made sure to separate the ones showing the rest of what he did to them into the other stacks, for after Malcolm stops reacting to these. “You can’t be afraid of it. I don’t want you to be. That’s why I want you to see what it looks like. They’re just bodies, Malcolm. They weren’t really _there_ anymore. Can’t you try for me? Don’t you like to learn?”

Malcolm hesitates, and then cracks his eyes open. 

“See?” Martin says, flipping from one to the next. “Not really so bad after all, are they?”

They’re not bad at all, of course, but Malcolm still starts to shake, his hands clenching in Martin’s shirt. Martin gets through three more before Malcolm scrambles off of him and throws up into the trash can.

Two more than last time, and four more than the first. That’s progress. He’ll take it. He knows as Malcolm gets older, this squeamishness will fade. They’ll get there soon.

“My poor boy,” he says, rolling his chair forward to rub Malcolm’s back, and Malcolm flinches. “Are you okay?”

“Y-y...yeah,” Malcolm manages after a moment. He wipes his mouth with a shaking hand, and then looks up Martin. He looks exhausted, the poor thing...Martin doesn’t like hurting him, but this isn’t _supposed_ to hurt him. Malcolm is just so easily frightened...and it’s all just not as simple as Martin had imagined it would be. 

But that’s okay. It can take as long as it needs to. The end result will be worth it.

“I don’t feel good,” Malcolm whispers. He’s gone terribly pale, but he usually does after Martin tries this. “I...I think...think I wanna go to bed, now.”

“Of course. It’s getting late. Come.” He stands up, and picks Malcolm up. The way his son trembles against him almost makes him _regret_ it. 

It’s for Malcolm, though. He’ll come to find it interesting, soon. He’ll be able to look at the rest of them, at the blood and gore, at the limbs and organs, and he won’t flinch anymore. 

For now, though, he carries his son to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and then tucks him into bed and pets his hair, coos at him and makes sure he knows just how good he is until he falls asleep.

He’ll come around. And when he does, Martin will be ready to lead him into even better things.

**x**

He’d been worried this would happen.

Even nearing eleven years old, Malcolm can’t look at all the pictures. He _hadn’t_ been supposed to find that body. He isn’t there yet. And now they’ve had to rush into it, and it’s scared Malcolm off. 

“You’re an _idiot,_ ” he hisses, and John frowns, looks up from fucking with his stupid video camera to look at Martin with an even stupider expression. 

“What?”

“ _Her,_ ” Martin says, gesturing to the body, and John looks down at her in disgust. 

“I thought—I thought you'd—what if she saw the car? She shouldn't have been out here—she was _snooping,_ and I don't like—"

“John,” Martin says, calmly, “She was hiking. She's the first person I've ever seen this far out. I don't think she saw. Now she definitely never will."

"Thought she'd call the police," John says. "I just...need you to...I can't..."

"And I appreciate that," Martin says, and John looks so _relieved._ He'd been trying to protect Martin again, to keep him from any threat, to keep John from _losing_ him. He does appreciate it.

"But you come to _me_ with your concerns. I decide. You know that. And if you ever throw off my plans again, I'm going to have to hurt you. _Okay?_ Not when it comes to my son.”

John lowers his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t find him. Go. I’ll finish here.”

John obediently trudges off, mumbling to himself, and Martin rolls his eyes. Half of the time, John acts more like a child than Malcolm. He's dealt with it for years, but now it’s really, _really_ starting to get on his nerves. _Everything_ is. The last month or so has been especially stressful, and his patience, his self-control, his _tolerance for John's shit_ are nearly non-existent. 

And now, thanks to _John,_ Malcolm’s afraid. Malcolm ran away from them, from _Martin_. He shouldn’t have been so scared...Martin’s been trying to make it so it _didn’t_ scare him...had taken him on a nice walk in a beautiful forest to calm him, to discuss what they would do with the girl in the trunk when they got back…

And John’s _ruined_ it. He really just _doesn’t_ think he likes John anymore.

The stupid man doesn’t even _find_ his son. He stands at the entrance to the cabin when Martin returns, and flinches when Martin demands to know where Malcolm is.

“I don’t know,” John says, and Martin shoves him back against the door. 

John gasps, and his eyes go wide. It’s not the first time Martin has manhandled him, but it doesn’t happen often. Martin doesn’t _want_ to hurt him, to remind him of what they’d both escaped, but sometimes he _has_ to. If John would just behave like a Goddamn _adult_ with any fucking _inkling_ of a brain, maybe Martin _wouldn’t_ have to.

“Stay here,” he mutters. “In case he comes back. Call me if he does.”

John nods, careful to keep his gaze down. 

Good. Martin might beat the shit out of him for this, anyway. _After_ he finds Malcolm. 

He looks until it’s too dark for him to see, until his heart really starts to pound, because John still hasn’t rang him, and that means Malcolm is still out here somewhere. 

Fuck. _Fuck,_ this was never supposed to happen. Not this. His son can’t be lost, he can’t be hurt, Martin _can’t lose him._

He jogs back to the cabin, ready to get flashlights and John and the _police_ if he really has to, the secrecy of this land of his be damned if it just meant bringing Malcolm back to him, and then he hears a _scream,_ and he slams the door open. 

“Malcolm?” he calls, looking around, but he sees no one, not even John. “ _Malcolm?_ ” 

And then the bathroom door jerks open, and his son wails, “Dad!” and staggers towards him.

Martin smiles, never so _relieved,_ and then Malcolm stops dead. He stares up at Martin with huge eyes, and then turns and bolts in the opposite direction, into the living room.

“What the _hell?_ Malcolm!” 

“G-g-g-get away!” Malcolm cries as Martin follows, backing himself into the corner, and Martin stops, holds his hands out. 

“Malcolm, it’s okay...my boy, come—”

“No! No! No, no, no, _no—”_

His son slides to the floor in hysterics, clutching his knees to his chest, and it’s only then that Martin realizes Malcolm is soaked, his clothes and hair dripping, leaving a puddle beneath him. 

“Why are you wet?” he asks, and Malcolm only cries harder. “John? Why's he—?'

John is standing in the hallway, awkwardly looking at the ground, and _he’s_ wet, too, up his sleeves and down some of his shirt. 

Martin stares at him, and then at his son, and then back. “What did you do?” 

“Nothing, I…” John says, and grabs at his arm. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s done nothing. He looks fucking _guilty_ , unlike he ever has before, but Martin doesn’t know _why_. 

Malcolm’s incoherent babbling turns into coughing, and he spits up what looks like pure water.

Much like someone would had they been nearly _drowned_. 

Martin is _horrified._ So much so that he doesn’t know what to _do,_ even though he knows he has to calm Malcolm down, and he knows exactly how to do that. He’s frozen for a minute, just staring at John, and then he grabs for his bag, takes something out to slip into his pocket.

“Malcolm,” Martin says, carefully approaching, and his son sobs, turns away. 

“Malcolm, my sweet boy. Please. Come here.”

“Get _away_ from me!” Malcolm screams, but he doesn’t seem to have the strength to actually fight Martin as Martin reaches for him. He just sort of...slumps, and Martin pulls him forward, leans him towards the floor, braces him with a hand on his chest, and pats his back. He’s soaked through, shivering from the cold, and it makes Martin’s heart ache.

“Cough,” he says. “Come on. I need to make sure your lungs are clear.”

Malcolm whines, softly, and forces a cough.

“Did you breathe it in?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, and then gives another, deeper hack. 

“A little or a lot?”

“Little. Agh...Dad...please d-don’t...please, I don’t w-wanna…”

“You don’t have to,” Martin says. Of course he’ll have to, but not now. Not right now. Right now he needs to get Malcolm warm and back home, needs to get him _safe_. His son coughs again, quieter, and Martin’s more satisfied this time. It sounds dry. He rubs Malcolm’s back, gently, and then presses the tip of a syringe into him and injects just enough. He doesn’t want Malcolm unconscious, after this. Just tired, sleepy, _calm._

Malcolm gasps, then almost instantly starts to sag in Martin’s arms. He groans, leans into Martin, and Martin holds him close, picks him up and lays him on the couch as he whimpers. 

“Ssh. Ssh, my boy. We’re going home, okay? Just relax.”

Malcolm mumbles something incoherent, and his eyes fix somewhere off to the side. He coughs again, clears his throat, and then sighs, looks a little more peaceful as Martin pets his cheek. 

His perfect son. _Hurt_. All because of John.

"He was...in the car," John says, and his voice shakes. "I never...I stayed here, like you told me to. I...I...M-Martin, he—"

Martin stands, turns to John, and punches him across the face. 

John staggers, and a second punch drops him to the floor. A sharp kick to his side, and another to the ribs, and then Martin is forcing him onto his back, straddling his waist and punching him several times more before grabbing his throat with both hands.

"What did you _fucking do_ to him?" Martin shouts, and John looks _terrified_. He looks like he thinks Martin is going to kill him, and maybe Martin _will_. 

"Wait! I was tryin'—I just—he was gonna—t-turn you in! So I—"

"So what? You tried to _drown_ him? Is that what you did?" 

"No! Just—held him down, just a _second—_ I thought—"

Martin squeezes harder, cuts off his oxygen completely and leaves him gagging. 

"Just a second? He was coughing up water. You held him down until he breathed. How does it feel not to breathe, John? Is it fun? Good for you?"

John tugs at Martin’s hands, nails digging in. He's trying to speak, but Martin doesn't care.

He really, really considers ending the bastard. It'd be so easy. Squeeze a little harder and shake, and his neck would snap. Or he could hold on until John stopped moving at all. Incredibly simple. Wouldn't take long at all. He’s done it plenty of times.

John's mouth keeps forming the shape of _Martin._ His eyes plead, _beg_ for mercy.

So a bit reluctantly, Martin gives it.

"Touch him again and I'll kill you, John," he says. "I'll bleed you dry. They'll never find a body. It'll be like you never existed at all. Do you understand me?"

John's eyelids start to flutter, and Martin lessens the pressure just enough John can drag in a breath.

“Do you _fucking_ understand me?” he shouts, and John tries to nod.

“Mar—y—es! Ple—”

“ _Apologize!_ ”

John chokes, shaking violently under Martin. “So—”

“I can’t hear you, John!”

“ _Sor—ry!_ Sor—I—”

Martin clenches his teeth so hard they ache, shakes John and smacks his head against the floor. Stupid fucker _._ Anyone else, and Martin would have already had their heart in his hand. 

But it’s John. And John is— _has_ been—his friend. He knows John is emotional. He knows John would do anything he thought he needed to do to protect Martin. He knows John sees Malcolm as a threat, and he doesn't doubt Malcolm had set him off, had threatened to call the police and take away the only person John has. 

This is too far, though. John has never hurt Malcolm before, and Martin will make sure he never does again. John is the only, _only_ person who he would ever even _consider_ giving a second chance after committing such a crime.

Still, Martin holds onto him until John’s eyes roll back, until his arms fall limp to his sides and he's _so close_ to death, and then sits up, watches John gasp and cough himself back to consciousness. 

“I could have killed you,” he says, squeezing John's cheeks. “Just now. I could have, and I _didn’t._ Don’t _ever_ forget that, John. You’re alive because I _let_ you be. Because you’re useful to me. You hurt Malcolm again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. I’ll send you straight the fuck to your _God,_ John. Are we clear?”

John nods. Martin grabs his throat again, and _then_ he sees the fear he wants. John _whimpers,_ has never let out a sound so _pathetic,_ and puts his hands up in surrender as he frantically sputters, “Yes! Yes! M-Martin, _stop!_ ” 

“Tell me you’re sorry,” Martin demands, and John obeys, quicker than he ever has before.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was trying—”

“You were _wrong._ That’s the end of it. Shut your mouth.”

John does, eyes still wide and flicking up and down Martin’s face, trying to determine whether or not Martin is about to kill him anyways. Knowing that it’s Martin’s choice entirely.

Martin quite likes John like this. He’s always allowed John to express his opinion, even if it didn’t matter in the end, but maybe that’s the problem. He should have never allowed John to believe he was anything important, that he had any sort of _right_ to ever touch Malcolm. John is _nothing._ Martin won’t let him forget again.

He smiles. He stands up, takes a breath, and offers his hand down for John to take.

John stares at him, and then at his hand. He hesitates. _Afraid._ That’s good. That’s very, very good. 

And then he takes it anyway, because he knows he’s to do what _Martin_ wants, and that’s even better. 

“There we go,” Martin says, pulling him up. He reaches out, brushing John’s sleeves off, and John flinches. He wipes his thumb under John’s bleeding nose, cups his chin, and John flinches harder.

“I’m...sorry,” John says slowly, hoarse. He still sounds a bit confused, so Martin makes sure he knows why this all happened in the first place.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

John takes a breath. It sounds like it hurts, and likely it does, judging by the dark bruising already starting to form around his neck. “Hurt him. I shouldn’t have. I swear, I was just—”

Martin moves forward, and John shrinks. He’s known what triggers John all along, what makes him think of his grandfather. He’d taken note of every reaction John had shown over the years, stored them away in case he were to need them. Small things. Moving too fast, looming, a certain tone of voice that would make the color drain from his face.

Martin uses it now, as he says, “ _John._ ”

John stumbles, like maybe his knees have gone weak. He lowers his head, and submits entirely. “Yes.”

“I don’t want your explanation. I want to know you’ll never do it again, because you understand what will happen if you do, don't you?”

“ _Yes,_ ” John says again. 

“What _will_ I do, John?”

“Kill me,” John replies, and Martin pats his shoulder. 

“Good. And neither of us _really_ want that, right?”

“No,” John says, shaking his head. He won’t even look up. Martin thinks that this is how it should have been all along. 

“Perfect. Well, I am _delighted_ we’ve gotten that straightened out! I knew you’d understand. Let’s get home, shall we?"

John nods. He doesn’t move, even when Martin pulls away. He's waiting for instructions. For _orders._

“Get your things together,” Martin says, and John obeys, sliding past him to pack his bag with trembling hands, with blood still running down his chin.

“Good. Oh, my little Malcolm, come here.” Martin picks his boy up off the couch, takes him upstairs, and redresses him in dry clothes before carrying him out to the car.

He opens the door, places Malcolm inside, and Malcolm moans, fingers twitching against Martin's sleeve. 

Martin pets his hair, kisses his forehead. "It's okay. I'm not angry with you, I promise. It's all okay. Just rest.”

It smells...odd in here, he realizes. Metallic. He knows that smell, better than anything. But he doesn't understand why it's _here._

He checks Malcolm over again, ready to walk right back inside and slit John's throat if his son is bleeding, but it's not Malcolm.

And then he looks over the seat, and swears softly. He closes the door, rounds to the back, and opens the trunk.

_"Jesus,"_ he says. "Oh, Malcolm…what did you do?"

**x**

His son is freezing. 

As he tucks Malcolm's body close to his chest and carries him back to the car, Martin can feel violent shuddering going through his boy.

His boy, still so _small_ , still fitting so perfectly in Martin's arms, even after thirty years. Always, always meant for Martin to take care of, even now. He's missed Malcolm. He hasn't been allowed to touch him in years, and now he can _hold_ him, just like he used to. Even if the situation that brought it about isn't ideal, it's something he's grateful for.

Malcolm whines, twitching against him, and Martin wonders just how long Malcolm's been outside. He's barefoot, dressed in hardly anything at all...no shape at all to be running through the woods in this weather.

Likely, that's exactly what John had been thinking, too.

Martin scowls. He'd warned John. He'd warned him. He'd _fucking warned_ him. 

Maybe the first time had been innocent enough. Maybe his later explanation when Martin had allowed him to speak again had been the truth. He'd been doing it to please Martin, for him and _God._ He'd been trying to _cleanse_ Malcolm of ill wishes towards his father. He'd been trying to help.

Not this, though. Not this. There's nothing John can say to _explain away_ what he's done this time. There's nothing that will make Martin look past kidnapping his son, hurting him, keeping him away from Martin for _weeks_. There's nothing John will be able to say to save his life.

He doesn't matter at the moment, though. Only Malcolm does.

Martin settles Malcolm into the passenger seat and cranks up the heat, revs the engine a few times to try and get it working faster. He hadn't expected Malcolm to be out here, to pass out in front of the car that Martin nearly didn't stop in time. He'd been fully prepared to kill John at the cabin, and take Malcolm home from there.

Malcolm groans softly, and Martin strokes the hair out of his feverishly hot face, tells him that’s it’s okay now, because it is. Martin's here. 

He'd known there would be bruises, though he'd hoped for only a few. John had a temper, especially when it came to Malcolm and his jealousy. Martin had known there would be _something._

But he hadn't expected his son, his perfect son, to be so absolutely mangled and _broken_. He takes Malcolm’s hurt hand in his own, barely touches it at all, and Malcolm _screams,_ the sound piercing straight through to Martin’s heart.

He pulls the gauze off, tries to ignore Malcolm’s crying, and cringes unlike he ever has at the sight of it. He’s used to wounds, he’s used to gore, but _this..._ this is _Malcolm_ , and along with a maimed thumb, with scabbed and bleeding wrists, he looks like he’s been stabbed. It doesn’t quite go through to the other side, but it’s horribly infected, and there are streaks of red leading up past Malcolm’s elbow. Not septic yet, but far too close. Martin has gotten to him just in time. A little longer, and…

He hadn’t meant to take so long. Things had gone wrong, he’d had to plan again...and his Malcolm had paid for it, has been suffering this entire time. His son. His poor, beautiful, perfect son.

He adjusts the air vents to blow directly onto Malcolm. He holds a water bottle to Malcolm's bruised lips, and watches him gag before gulping some down, grimacing like it hurts to swallow. It quiets him down, though, just a little, and so Martin continues to look him over.

The chain and shackle around his wrist means John had kept him restrained in that freezing cellar this entire time. He'd had to smash his own thumb to escape, and Martin can't imagine what had finally pushed his son to that. There are dark rings in the unmistakable shape of hands around Malcolm's neck, marks and scabs across his face. The amount of blood on him, on his clothes, is _appalling,_ and Martin is almost afraid to see what's underneath.

He has to, though. He has to see if something needs to be tended to. It can't be far to the nearest hospital, but he won't have Malcolm bleeding out on the way.

He starts to unbutton Malcolm's shirt, and suddenly Malcolm's uninjured hand slams out, claws frantically at Martin’s with torn nails and raw fingertips, chain noisily clinking in his lap.

"No, _no—_ " Malcolm gasps, the eye not blackened opening but remaining unfocused, his gaze somewhere far over Martin's shoulder. "No!"

"It's _me,"_ Martin says. He knows Malcolm is sick, off his medications and in withdrawal, but Malcolm has to know _somewhere_ that Martin still only wants the best for him, right? "It's Dad, Malcolm. I'm here. Calm down, okay? It’s just me."

He tries to cup Malcolm's cheek, and Malcolm cries out,kicks and flails with no regard to his injuries. 

"Please! D-d-don't, no, stop! You c—you can't— _John, stop!"_

Martin pulls away. Malcolm curls up, gasping, and wraps his arm around himself, the other hanging limp.

"Pl—ease, I'll be g-good, _please don't_ —n-not that— _can't_ —"

The desperation and fear in his son makes him sick. He doesn't _understand._

And then he realizes Malcolm is trying to hold his shirt closed, still begging for John to stop. He realizes that Malcolm had been rather docile with his inspections until the specific moment Martin had tried to take it off, and then thought it was _John_ who was doing so. He realizes Malcolm is trying to pull his knees up, to cross his legs, to protect himself—that Malcolm's really only trying to prevent one area from being touched. 

Martin realizes, and he wishes he hadn't.

His lungs seize. Anger blinds him. His nails draw blood from his palms, and he tastes metal as he bites a chunk straight out of his cheek. 

He'd planned to kill John already, but now he'll fucking rip him apart. He'll bleed him dry, just like he promised. He'll peel every individual vein and artery out of John's body and then choke him with his own intestines. 

"It's Dad," he says again, much quieter. Malcolm has no chance of hearing it over his own voice, which suddenly cuts off into a series of violent gags and then back into incoherent, pleading sobs.

Martin's never seen him like this. He's seen his son cry, he's seen Malcolm _afraid,_ but not this. It's too much. He's hurting himself, and he's hurting Martin.

Nearly twenty days. John has had him for the better part of a _month._

That's too long. That's far too long. That's too much time for anything and _everything_ to have happened.

Martin had promised to keep Malcolm safe. Promised to never let someone hurt him, to let the _world_ hurt him, like they had Martin. And now...and _now_...

Martin takes a deep breath. _Focus._ He reaches into the backseat, pulls his bag from the floor and unzips it, rummaging through it for what he wants.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm," he says. "My boy. I didn't know he'd take you. I didn't know it would take so long to get to you. And I _didn't_ know he would hurt you. Not like this. I trusted him, at one point, if you can believe it. But I've been a stupid man, Malcolm. I don't expect to be forgiven."

He sighs, laying a rag on his knee and unscrewing the lid of a glass vial. Malcolm flinches at the sound of the dropper against the bottle. 

"I'm sorry," Martin says, and still so genuinely means it. He doesn't think he's been sorry for _anything_ before. But this...this is Martin's failure. He should never have let John live all that time ago. This is his own fault, and Malcolm has paid for it.

He gently places the cloth over Malcolm's face. Malcolm jerks, refuses to inhale, and starts to squirm again.

"No," he says, grasping Malcolm's uninjured hand, and Malcolm grabs onto his fingers for dear life. "Breathe. It's okay. Come on. You're safe now. I won't hurt you."

Still, as expected, Malcolm holds his breath until he can't anymore, until his upper body convulses hard enough it forces him to draw in air. His hand relaxes in Martin's almost immediately as his eyelid flutters, and Martin squeezes it. 

"You're safe now. It's okay." 

Malcolm's head lolls back. Martin keeps the rag in place a while longer, until Malcolm is completely asleep, and then tosses it into the back. He hopes he doesn't need to use it again. Malcolm's body doesn't need anymore strain placed upon on it. 

He opens Malcolm's shirt, and gasps.

His beautiful son, completely black and blue, swollen and covered in gashes. John had cut into him so deep he'd needed to _stitch_ him, _twice._ Martin really looks, and notices that on Malcolm's side isn't just a gash, but a _stab_ wound. He pulls his son against him to look at his back, and somehow it looks even _worse,_ the skin raw and, in some places, completely gone.

John had _tortured_ him. Beaten him, _whipped_ him, so repeatedly and _continuously_ that every inch of him is damaged, that there is going to be permenant scarring and lasting pain. John had possibly—he had possibly even—

He fumes. He slams his elbow into the center console so hard he can't hold back a sound of pain. He'd punch through the goddamn window if he didn't need his hands to _help._

"Oh, Malcolm," he breathes finally. He drags his items of first aid out of the bag, cleans the dirt and grime out of his wounds and bandages whatever oozes blood. The hospital will do more. It’ll give him medicine and time and _help._

He wishes _he_ could do more, give Malcolm the help he needs. He’d fantasized the entire drive here about finally whisking Malcolm away, going into hiding with him, but...not like this. Martin hadn’t expected him to look like _this._ He wouldn't even survive the trip in this state. The red lines from his wound are winding up towards his armpit. His side needs to be drained, his hand operated on before he _loses_ it, or worse, loses his life. 

Martin won't risk that. He won't _rush_ it. He knows he'll have his family again one day, _all_ of them, but that will simply have to wait for another time.

He rests his hand on Malcolm's cheek. Malcolm didn't seem to believe it anymore, but Martin has always loved him. He will _always_ love him, until the day Martin dies. Because Malcolm is his son. His. And they’re the same.

"My boy," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead and then buckling him in. 

He moves back to his seat, and tugs the car out of park, though keeps his foot on the break. 

Likely, John isn't too far behind. If he'd been sleeping, or if Malcolm had knocked him out to escape, the cabin is just a bit further. It will only take a few minutes. Malcolm is stable. His shivering is fading. He’s warm, not losing blood.

Martin will make John suffer, though probably not as much as he deserved, and then he'll save his son. 

He pulls the shift again, and grabs onto the door handle.

And then goes very still as there's a tap on the window.

The cold has frosted it, left it fogged, but he can see the outline of the barrel of a revolver pressed against the glass.

He doesn't really flinch, but he tenses. 

And then he rolls down the window, looks up, and smiles. 

"Dear John," he says, quite casually. "Why, it's been years. Imagine seeing you all the way out here!"

John is breathing heavily, sweat-soaked even in this temperature from the chase. He looks _deranged,_ unlike Martin can ever remember him. The last time they’d seen each other, twenty long years ago, John had hardly dared to meet his eyes. And clearly, time away from Martin has made all the difference, because now he’s glaring straight into Martin’s with nothing but a murderous hatred, and it _unsettles_ Martin. _Deeply._

"You look well," Martin offers. “Healthy.”

John glances at Malcolm behind him, setting his jaw.

Fear is useless, and Martin doesn't think he's afraid, per se.

But his breath definitely catches as John puts the gun to his head and cocks it, because he doesn’t doubt for a second that John will pull the trigger.

"Martin," John finally says, and a wicked little smile spreads across his face. “Let’s talk.”


	18. All The Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iT’s AlL lEd To ThIs!
> 
> But there’s still more planned. More than I had originally tbh. This is just the climax of all 17 chapters before. And I’m very excited. Please forgive it being 11k+ words. It's extremely intense, more so than anything I think I've ever written. I love it SO much. Bless you guys. Pls enjoy  
> (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)
> 
> TW for very brief mention of past childhood sexual abuse (for Martin, same that was vaguely implied last chapter but much more clear this time), and several mentionS of what happened to Malcolm in 16. Also, John being creepy and gross and just the worst person ever to...literally everyone. At least he’s consistent, I guess. Good for him.

He drops the knife somewhere between the car and the cabin, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want it, it’s evil, _evil,_ and he needs—there’s so much blood on his hands—so much blood the handle of the door slips right through his fingers the first time he tries. 

The second, it opens, and he shoves his way inside, gasping, and runs into something solid.

“Holy hell, kid,” John says, grabbing his shoulders, and Malcolm cries out, shaking his head.

“No—no—let go!”

“ _Calm down._ Where’ve you been? Martin’s out there _looking_ for your stupid ass in the dark!”

Malcolm struggles, kicks out, and brings his foot into John’s shin. John gasps and releases him, and Malcolm rushes past him, into the living room.

“Malcolm, _stop!_ " John says, and Malcolm has never been so afraid, backing up until he hits the wall.

They’d tried to make him kill her. That’s what had happened, isn’t it? His dad—his dad, the only person he’s ever trusted and loved _so much—_ is _crazy_ , he isn’t safe, he wants to go home!

“Please—” he chokes, holding his hand out, and John stops, doesn’t get any closer. 

He’d thought John was his friend. His dad had told him he could trust John and he _had_ and—and they’d both— _betrayed him—_

“You were doin' so well, kid,” John tells him, and it only makes him feel worse. “Why'd you run?”

“You tried—tried to make me—you—Dad, he—”

John laughs, and Malcolm goes quiet just from the shock of it.

" _Man_ you're a stupid kid," John says, rubbing his face, his beard. "A real moron. Congrats to Martin on that one. Tried to make you _kill,_ is the word you're looking for. And yeah, that was the plan. That's _been_ the plan. How haven't you figured that out yet?"

Malcolm’s legs threaten to give out. No. No, his father loves him. His father has always _loved_ him. Why—why would his dad want that? Why would he want Malcolm to kill someone? 

He groans, grabbing at his head. The girl, he—he remembers seeing her—where had he seen her? Somewhere else...not the trunk...no, a...somewhere dark, somewhere…

Sometimes he wakes with a bad headache, and he doesn't remember what happened to get him wherever he is. Usually his bed, but most recently the car, and something he thought about was that only his dad or John could have been the cause of it. But he'd thought John was nice, and his dad would never hurt him. His dad would never make him hurt someone else, either, right? He’d made him...look at pictures, even when it made him sick...kept making him look at them, even when he begged to please, _please stop_...but...but he wouldn’t make Malcolm…

No. _No. No, no, no._

"I'll tell!” Malcolm says, shaking his head. "I'll tell them all! He can't make me—”

John advances on him so fast he can barely get a scream out before he's being manhandled, dragged forward and slammed down on the couch hard enough to daze him.

"Calm down before I _make_ you," John hisses. 

" _Ugh_...n-no...g-get away! Get—"

John wraps two hands around his throat and pins him against the cushions, and Malcolm lets out a terrified squeak. He's never seen John look so angry, so _scary—_

"You have no idea what I could do to you," John growls. "What your _father_ could do. You think your daddy loves you that much? Huh? You've just been a good boy. You tell him you're gonna call the cops, and he'll probably kill you, too. He'll probably ask me to help. And then we’ll bury you out here, and no one will ever find you. Not _all_ of you, anyway.”

Malcolm scratches at John's hands. His dad would never—would never— _would he?_ Would his father _kill him?_ He'd disobeyed. He's never been bad before. What if his father decided to—?

"That's your father out there, looking for you," John says, squeezing hard enough Malcolm's breathing cuts off, and as much as Malcolm writhes it does nothing to free him. "And you're gonna respect him. I'll _make_ you." 

John drags him up, throws him over a shoulder as he gasps, and then he's being tossed down onto the cold bathroom floor, and John is shutting and locking the door behind them.

Malcolm sits up, scrambling back, and fits himself between the sink cabinets and the toilet as John reaches into the shower, plugging the drain and turning the water on.

"You've never been baptized," he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “That’s not on you, though. I’ve told him, and he won't listen. And I’m no priest, so I can’t do it myself. But how about we consider this practice, huh? Because you need _something._ Your family is more important than anything, _boy,_ and you need to remember that.”

“I—I wanna go home,” Malcolm says, starting to cry and tremble. “I want my mom!”

John rolls his eyes and glares down at him. “Mothers are useless. They’re _whores._ All of them. You need your _father._ And when you tell me you’ll keep your little mouth shut about all this, we can call him. Sound good? Good.”

He reaches out, grabs Malcolm’s wrist, and Malcolm kicks out. “No! _Daddy!_ ”

“He can’t hear you,” John says, easily pulling Malcolm forward and bending him over the side of the tub. “You know who can? God. He can hear you, Malcolm. He’s always listening. You just need to listen to Him, too.”

“ _Help!_ ” Malcolm screams, clawing at John’s hand as it grabs a fistful of his hair, and John sighs.

“You know, it’s a lot easier to hear Him if you’re quiet,” he says, and pushes Malcolm’s head under the water.

**x**

“Get out.”

Martin huffs. Oh, he _hates_ that. It boils his blood, makes his fists clench in his lap as he glares down at the steering wheel, then back up at John. _John,_ who shouldn’t be giving _him_ orders, or looking at him like that, or pointing a goddamned gun at his head. That’s not what John is _for._ John is for _Martin._ John obeys _him._ Even twenty years later, John shouldn't have forgotten. Not after the amount of time and _energy_ Martin spent to _make sure_ he understood.

“John,” he says, slowly, _warningly,_ and the pistol is pressed into his flesh even harder. He doesn't doubt John will pull the trigger, but he also doesn't doubt himself. There's _nothing_ he's not in control of, or that he can't turn around in his favor. _Especially_ with John. Not even Malcolm had been quite as perfectly maneuvered around as John, and he _clearly_ just needs to be reminded who's in charge. It’s never been him, and it never _will_ be.

“We can talk. But I don’t want your gun in my face. Put it away.”

Instead, John smashes the butt of it into his nose. Martin involuntarily lets out a yelp and jerks back, reaching up to cover it as it starts to gush blood. " _What_ in the—"

“Get _out!_ ” John shouts, yanking the door open and making a gesture as if to hit him again. “Now!”

Martin absolutely fucking _seethes._ He’ll kill John even _slower_ for this. How dare he pretend he has _any_ authority whatsoever? And to _hit_ him? He'll break every goddamn bone in the bastard's body.

“ _Fine,_ ” he says, because for the moment—the _moment—_ it’s his only option. He steps out, and John shoves him away, points the gun to his chest. It’s the only thing keeping Martin from strangling the life out of him.

“He's mine,” John says. "You're not taking him. Malcolm is _mine._ " 

“Yours!” Martin laughs, and notices John’s finger twitch on the trigger. He thinks Malcolm is _his?_ Oh, he’s got another thing coming. _Death,_ if Martin's lucky...and he is. "What is this? Some—some kind of show of authority? Over me? Over Malcolm? That’s _my son_ , John. My blood. _Mine._ ”

"Your son," John agrees, "but _my mission._ That’s what this is. And my mission is more important than _anything.”_

"Mission?" Martin questions, glancing into the car. Malcolm hasn't moved yet, still slumped against the window, dirty and bloody and...God, he looks _dead._ He could have been dead.

There'd been a part of Martin that he’d done his best to ignore, a part that told him he’d find John had _killed_ Malcolm, if he ever found his boy at all. He remembered the way he'd sometimes catch John looking at his son, with jealousy and a glint of anger. He remembered the way John hated every bit of attention Martin had given Malcolm and not him. And he tried not to think about how _easily_ John could have decided to slit Malcolm’s throat for it all.

But instead, John...what _has_ he done? He tortured Malcolm. He abused him. The way Malcolm had screamed at Martin's touch…so _terrified_ …he was...

He was John’s _mission._ _Is_ his mission. One from God? Of _course_. Always a religious man, the bastard. Spewing quotes from Bible passages on occasion around him and _especially_ Malcolm until Martin had ordered him to shut his mouth about it, and had received the closest thing to a glare John had ever given him—until now. But it implies John wants him alive, doesn't it? Martin doesn’t know _how_ John plans to do that, with Malcolm on the verge of sepsis...and perhaps he can use that. He’s done a lot more with much less.

“What _is_ your mission, John?” he asks. “More specifically, does it involve Malcolm losing his hand?”

John frowns, and looks in at Malcolm. He looks a bit confused, as if he hadn’t realized Malcolm was in as bad a shape he is, and while his eyes are averted, Martin’s hand slowly slides towards his pocket. 

“Because he’s going to, John. If he doesn’t get to a hospital soon—”

“No, I...can help him,” John says, looking at Martin again, and Martin’s hand stops. “No, he’s not going to die.”

“No? I mentored you, but you’re _not_ a doctor. Most certainly not a surgeon.”

John swallows hard, more of a gulp, and says, “Then you. You can—”

“I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon, _John_. I don't do _hands_ , and his is thoroughly fucked!"

"I didn't..." John begins, trailing off, and Martin tsks.

"Tell me, how long has he had a fever?” 

“I don’t know. A few days. A week. It doesn’t matter—”

“Doesn’t _matter?"_

“I’ve been giving him antibiotics! And I can get him more!”

“He doesn’t just need antibiotics,” Martin says. “He needs IV fluids, oxygen, surgery. He fainted, so they may need to get his blood pressure up, and—"

John straightens his arm out, holding the gun closer to Martin's chest. “Tell me what I need to get him, then. Tell me what he needs, and I’ll—”

“ _Help,_ ” Martin says, making a rather desperate gesture with his hands. “He needs real help, John. I tried my best, but he needs more than either of us can give him. Do you understand?”

“Shut the fuck up,” John hisses. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not a child. What do you mean you tried? Do you...have medicine?”

“No. I have _bandages._ I didn’t expect you to have _shredded_ him, you psychotic piece of—”

“It’s his fault!” John interrupts. “Don't you blame me! He could have just said yes. I told him that. He could have been good from the start, he—”

  
Martin lurches a step forward, and John reels back, nearly fumbles the gun right out of his hands as he exclaims, “Stop! Stay there. I-I’m not scared of you anymore, I’ll—”

"Oh no?"

"No! And you’re not...taking him. Malcolm is coming with me, and I'm—" He trembles a little, and adjusts his grip on the gun. "I'll kill you if I have to." 

Martin tilts his head. "Kill me? But you _love_ me, John." 

John fidgets again, scowling, and Martin’s more than aware he’s hit something he can use. He softens his voice, keeps his anger at bay.

"I mean...don't you? You always have. How could you kill me, after everything I've done for you?" 

"You beat the shit out of me," John says. "That's the last memory I have of you. And you know, it really isn't a great one! And then—and then you _left_ me. Because of _him._ But…"

Martin can tell he's getting control of the situation again. John wouldn't be so shaky otherwise. So he goes on with, "I did that for you,John…don't you know that? I’d never hurt you unless I had to. Unless I needed you to remember what I taught you. That’s how we were brought up to learn. Using _words_ to tell you what not to do wouldn’t have lasted a day. But that? You remember it perfectly all this time later. It’s simply what I had to do. And I didn’t _want_ to leave...we should have continued. Malcolm should have joined us, and I should have had you both. Both of you, mine. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be mine?”

John _shivers._ Martin sees it go through him.

“I _was,_ ” John finally says. “I...I was, I did _everything_ for you, and—”

“Oh, I _know_ ,” Martin coos, blinking slowly, looking John up and down. It delights him to see John thinking his words over, _believing_ them. Just needed to be reminded, like he’d thought. He’ll get John’s guard down, whatever it takes, and then he’ll slide the switchblade in his pocket into John’s throat and be done with it.

“Dear John. _My_ John. Why don't you put the gun down, hmm? Come here.” He wiggles his finger, tries to tempt John forward. John shivers even harder, and Martin smiles, lowering his voice.

“ _Come_ , my John. You have me, now. You don’t even need him. Let's get Malcolm some help, and then we—"

"No," John says, giving his head a quick shake to clear it and glancing at Malcolm again. "No. _We_ won’t do anything. You shouldn’t _be_ here. You haven’t been here the whole fucking time. Do you—do you know what that _did_ to me?”

Oh, John had _missed_ him. How _sweet._ “I know, and I’m so _sorry_...I’d never leave you on purpose. _They_ took me away from you. But I can give you everything you want now, John. I won’t leave again, okay?”

John shakes his head again, his eyes darting. “St—stop. You’re a liar. _Stop lying._ ”

“You’re upset, and I understand that. I’ve always understood you, John, haven’t I? So let me—”

John fires the gun right over Martin’s shoulder, and Martin nearly loses his balance as the bullet whizzes by his ear.

“I _hate you,_ ” John spits, getting closer, the gun up to Martin’s head again. “I hate you. You—you lie. You don’t do _shit_ but _lie!_ You shouldn’t even _be_ here! This is _my_ mission. You’re not part of it. You need to leave. I’ll _let_ you leave, because—”

“Because you don’t hate me,” Martin says, putting as much affection in his voice as he can without vomiting. “You still love me.”

John glances at Malcolm again, then back.

"No,” he replies. “Not anymore."

Martin can't recall something leaving him quite so _struck_ , and it entirely throws him off. “ _Him?_ You think you love _him_ now? Is that what this? My God, John, you were always _mad,_ but _this..._ you _tortured_ him. You—"

“I didn’t,” John says. “No. It wasn't torture. I taught him. Just like you taught me, huh? He won’t forget. He’ll _never_ forget. He's learning, he's—he’s so close, Martin. You’d be proud. You’d be _happy,_ if you just saw it!"

“Saw what, John?” Martin asks, and the second John opens his mouth to respond, his son, the master of fucking timing, groans and starts to stir.

John's attention immediately goes to Malcolm, and he smiles, so disgustingly fond.

Martin clenches one hand into a fist and reaches into his pocket with the other, fingers folding around the blade. “Whatever you’re thinking, I can _promise_ it won’t end well. Come _here,_ to _me._ Leave him.”

Slowly, John’s eyes go over Martin’s body, fix on his chest. He purses his lips, thoughtfully, and Martin demands, “ _What?”_

“I’m trying to remember,” John says, lowering the gun just a bit, “where the arteries are.”

Martin sees his finger go for the trigger, but he can’t get a word out before the gun fires.

The bullet rips hot through his flesh, whites out his vision, and he hears his own cry of pain ring in his eardrums before he falls, falls and never remembers hitting the ground.

**x**

There’s a breeze across his face. It winds through his hair, tickles his nose, and Malcolm blinks hard. The window is cracked open, and he looks out at a frozen lake, then up at the winter sky. A flake of snow lands on his forehead, his cheek. 

Slowly, his hearing fades in, and there’s mumbling outside the car. No...not mumbling. _Arguing._

“...you hadn’t decided to take that bitch, everything would have gone to plan, wouldn’t it?” 

“Sorry. I said I’m sorry! Aah, stop— _Martin!"_

“Stupid _fucking_ bastard!"

His father. John. Yes, he and his father and John...the cabin…

John had hurt him. John had held him underwater again and again, had never given him enough time to catch his breath in-between, had made him really, truly believe he was going to die. John had yelled about God and sin and so many things that are lost to him now, and then his father had yelled for him and John had suddenly gasped and let him go and slammed back against wall as if he was afraid, letting Malcolm escape. Malcolm's father had _saved_ him...or maybe just wanted to make Malcolm suffer himself. Maybe John had been right—maybe his father wanted to kill him, too, now.

The car shakes, and he hears John grunt, hears his father speaking with such anger that it's unlike anything he's ever heard before.

"You could have _ruined this_ , John. You _idiot._ You _shithead._ _God_ , I want to hurt you, just—" 

Another grunt, another shake, and Malcolm falls to lay across the seat. His arm dangles over the side, and he really tries to wake himself up more, but it's useless.

"Get in the car. _Now._ "

The passenger side door opens, and Malcolm's eyes crack open as John sits down, sniffing loudly, followed by his father on the other side. 

"Here," his father says, handing John a wad of tissues from the center console, and John holds them to his nose and tips his head back. 

Malcolm's eyes threaten to close again. His bleary gaze fixes on his father in the rear-view mirror, and the anger on the man's face is terrifying. Malcolm has never seen him like that before, not ever. 

It softens the moment his father catches his eyes, and his father looks back at him with a little smile.

"My boy," he says. "Can you be calm? Or do you need me to help you sleep some more?”

Malcolm can barely stay awake as it is. His father reaches back and takes his hand, holding it tight.

"Do you know what you did?" he asks. "You did good. How do you feel, hmm? Good?"

‘No," Malcolm mumbles. “Where’s...where’s…?”

“Gone,” his father tells him. “She’s gone now. Don’t worry.” 

Malcolm feels his heart drop, and tries to pull away. No. No, she can’t be gone. She can’t be— "I was tr—tryin’ to—"

"Save her?" his father asks, humming, easily keeping his hand where it is. "Oh, my boy. My _foolish_ boy. It's a good thing you failed."

Failed. He...failed.

He _failed_.

"She's...d...ead?" 

His father smiles, and it's all the answer he needs.

Weakly, he starts to cry. His father squeezes his hand, their fingers still intertwined, and it starts to shake.

"Oh, Malcolm," his father says. "You're going to make me so proud, aren't you?"

His eyes slide closed, and he slips back into darkness.

**x**

The second Martin collapses, John regrets it.

He doesn't know why. Martin shouldn't _matter_ anymore. John should have shot somewhere _fatal._

Instead, his former mentor bleeds from his shoulder. John doesn't think he hit anything vital. He's had enough practice to at least _slightly_ know what he's doing, hasn't he? 

He looks at Martin on the ground. Martin’s face is twisted in a grimace, and he definitely won't be out long, but with as much pain as Malcolm can take before passing out, John's surprised a single bullet had done the job here. Two decades of prison has made Martin _weak..._ and yet it had only taken a few weeks for Malcolm to become the same.

_Malcolm_.

Of course. Martin _doesn't_ matter anymore. Only Malcolm does. Only Malcolm. John can hurt him so _much,_ and his Malcolm just... _takes it._ His Malcolm can take...so many things, from John, and take them so perfectly. He _could_ take even more.

He hums, sliding in to sit in the driver's seat. Malcolm's shirt is open, and John's delighted to see his artwork again, touching Malcolm’s collar and neck and down his chest. His eyes land on Malcolm’s hand, his swollen, broken hand, and he almost feels bad. 

Malcolm's scream from the bottom of the stairs had woken him up, and he'd flung himself out of bed to find his Malcolm had somehow broken free and _run._

And he'd been _terrified,_ because his Malcolm was far too weak to be out there alone, and he was going to _die._ John had had other things to focus on...he should have done more than kick the tools out of Malcolm's reach before leaving. He hadn't thought the boy would wake for a long, _long_ time, and had nearly lost him _again_. And he _can’t_ lose him. His Malcolm is so very, very important, to John and to God. 

He's wasting time, touching now when he knows he'll be able to do it as much as he wants later, but he’s just never seen someone so _beautiful._ Not even Martin. Not ever. Only Malcolm. Only Malcolm. 

Malcolm grunts, twisting slightly, eyes rapidly darting under his eyelids, and John smiles.

"Ssh, you poor thing. Don't worry. I won't let him take you away from me." 

He looks into the back, grabs Martin's bag, and goes through it. Bandages...gauze...good, Martin hadn't been completely blind to what he was capable of. It’s a bit flattering, that he’s _exceeded_ expectations. Medical tape, chloroform...well, it'll all certainly come in handy. The vial left behind at the cabin had been nearly empty, and...with all the... _admiration_ he’s done while Malcolm sleeps...John likes the idea of being able to make the boy sleep whenever he wants.

He stretches for the rag tossed back, drips some on, and then smiles as Malcolm's eye flickers open. 

"Dad…?" he mumbles, and John cups his cheek, strokes the hair out of his face.

"Still me, little Malcolm. It'll always be me." 

He places the cloth over Malcolm's face, and Malcolm grunts, one of his feet weakly coming out to try and press himself back. 

"Ssh," John murmurs, splaying a hand flat on Malcolm’s chest. So pretty...so soft...he wants to take him, right here. But he can’t, because Malcolm is sick, and right now, John needs to help him more than anything, or he’ll never be able to have him again.

Malcolm’s chest is still under his fingers. A desperate grunt escapes from behind the cloth. Even in this state, he’s fighting, and it’s just...so perfectly _Malcolm._ John will almost be sorry when it finally stops. But at the same time...John is really going to have to remind him how grateful he needs to be that John allows him to breathe in the first place. 

Malcolm scrabbles weakly at the door, either looking for leverage or trying to open it, and John takes his hand and holds it to his own cheek. Oh, the things Malcolm could do for him, with these hands…with his _body..._ fucking sinful all on their own. He’s already committed some…he doesn’t know why he would ever turn back now. It is God’s plan, after all.

"Relax,” he murmurs, and Malcolm squeezes his eye closed, trembling hard. Just a few seconds longer. “Come now, little Malcolm. Breathe for me."

_"John!"_

Martin's voice startles him, enough that he fumbles with the rag and drops it. Malcolm gasps for untainted air, then slumps against the door and mumbles, “Dad, I…” before going silent again.

Sick. He’s very, very sick. The antibiotics _weren’t_ enough. But it’s not _John’s_ fault. Malcolm's had the option to be good the entire time. He could have stopped it the moment it started. He’d chose to keep going. And really, breaking him down had been John’s favorite part. It wouldn’t have been fun otherwise. He might not have realized just how perfect Malcolm is without it.

Still, he should have cleaned Malcolm’s wounds better, given him more water. He should have been giving Malcolm what he needed to get the fever down from the start, and paying more attention to it when it stayed. 

How nice of Martin to bring them a car, so he can do all that on the way. Some fluids, a bit of food, a splint for his thumb...Malcolm will be just fine. He doesn't need a hospital. God's watching over them, and He will protect him, protect them both, just like He always has.

First, though…Martin needs to be dealt with.

John ducks back outside, where Martin has dragged himself up to sit against the side of the car, hand clamped down over his wound, blood oozing between his fingers and soaked down the front of his shirt.

"You shot me," Martin says, sounding more surprised than anything, and then he looks up. "Good for you. Finally taking initiative. It'll be the _last_ thing you do, but I can appreciate that. Not quite the sniveling little boy you were, hmm?”

John sneers at him. “Not since you. No, I found my way all on my own. No, that’s not right. I had help from God.”

Martin laughs, and it comes out as a pained wheeze. “I’m sure you did.”

John’s hands clench. Martin had never believed, and he’d known that. He’d tried to change it, and Martin had shut him down, every single time. Threatened to _hit_ him for explaining how important it was to teach Malcolm God’s word. 

How could he have been so blind? Martin never feared God,and God never wanted Martin. Martin was never meant to be His, or John’s. It was always, always Malcolm. From the moment John had found himself wanting to keep the boy alive on his ninth birthday, even despite how much _hatred_ he felt, he should have known Malcolm was the one.

“John,” Martin says, through tightly clenched teeth. “What are you doing? What’s the plan here?"

"We're going away. Far away." John gestures to him with the gun, taking a few steps closer. “And you can die, I can kill you, or you can—”

“You’re not taking him,” Martin says, very calmly. Pain is something he's been accustomed to since his first memories, something he's more than learned to handle, and it's never made him less steady with his words. “I won’t let you.”

John scoffs. "You’ll stop me? Like this? Little Malcolm has been so...helpless, without his arm. You think you’ll be better? I don’t. You’re looking a little pale, really. It doesn’t matter what happens to you. Dead or alive, we’re leaving. Today. Me and him. Because he's mine. I _made_ him mine."

Martin shifts, biting down on his tongue in an effort to keep his expression neutral. "What did you do to him, John? Hmm? What does that mean?" 

John smiles at him, and puts the gun to his head. "Should I show you?" he asks, and then hits Martin across the forehead, knocks him onto his back and sits on his waist.

"I can show you," John says, and then shifts, exhaling harshly. "Oh, I missed you, Martin…"

Martin groans, squints up at him, and replies, "I _can't_ say the same."

John snickers and pets Martin's face, curls his fingers into the graying beard there. There's no real reaction, not like Malcolm. Martin just blankly looks up at him, blood trickling down the side of his head. Even when John slips his hand inside Martin's shirt and rolls his hips down, Martin doesn’t flinch.

_Boring._ Martin is so boring. No longer so young and tempting.

No, not like Malcolm at all. 

Still. He could take. He's in control of them _both._ He's never felt so powerful, so his own. Martin doesn't control him anymore. John is something more than he ever was, or ever thought he could be.

All thanks to his Malcolm. Just as much a savior of John as John is of him.

Martin watches John, observes, waiting for a moment he can go for his knife, and then tenses when John's hand roughly palms him through his pants. His breathing never falters much, but he's not comfortable. His lip twitches, threatens to curl up in disgust, but he stops it. He's perfectly capable of hiding what he thinks and feels, if anything at all, but for the first time in a long time, he can’t help but picture himself trapped back in his childhood room, pinned down to his bed while his father—

He blinks hard. Almost shuts them for a moment. Not afraid. Startled, maybe. 

"What was that?" John coos, and Martin scowls up at him. John is _desperate_ for his pain, and Martin simply won't give it.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks, calm as ever. "Go on. Will you do it here? I don't think you'll enjoy it. It's a bit too cold. Bodies have a tendency to conserve blood to the heart and lungs rather than...well, use it for other, less important things, don’t you remember? But really, by all means. Try."

John frowns. He doesn't like that Martin is telling him what to do _again_ , even if it's to hurt him. He wants Martin to stop talking at all. He could probably accomplish it better ways, but right now he decides it's a good start to push the gun into Martin's mouth.

Martin gags, and _something_ flashes in his eyes, but it's still not _enough._

"Stop giving me orders," he says. "I'm not yours anymore. I'm God's. I was always His."

Martin _rolls his fucking eyes_ , and John furiously shoves the gun in as far as he can. Martin chokes around it, his hand coming up to tug at John's, and John tries to push it even deeper.

"I didn't know until you _left_ me," John hisses. "I didn't. And it might be little Malcolm's fault, but you could have—you could have done _anything._ You could have written. You could have called, eventually. I waited for you to. But you didn't need me anymore, so you didn't _care._ Isn't that right? Is that why?"

He pulls the gun out, and Martin coughs and gasps and _chuckles._

"Did...did you...think I loved you too, dear John?" he asks, and John isn't just angry anymore. He's _betrayed._

"No," he says, too hesitantly, and Martin smirks up at him.

"You did. Oh, you poor thing. John, you were around because I wanted you to be. You were useful to me. You cleaned up for me. You did what you were told."

John grasps Martin’s beard a little harder. “No. No, you taught me. You helped me, _paid_ me—”

"I paid you because you were too much of a moron to have a _real_ career. I kept you fed and clothed because you were _failing_ to. I saved your life, and don’t you _ever_ forget that. But you were never Malcolm. You never _would_ have been Malcolm. I used you as practice for him, to see what lessons worked best, to adjust them to better fit _him._ That’s it, John.”

John sits up, frowning. “No,” he says quietly, and puts the gun under Martin’s chin. “Stop. _Shut up._ ”

Martin doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I don’t love anyone, John. But I _especially_ would never have loved you.”

John’s hands shake, and he smacks the gun across Martin’s face again, splits open his upper lip against his teeth. He raises it again with every intention bashing some of them out, maybe all of them, because _then_ he’ll shut up for _good._

And then he thinks about how he could _really_ hurt Martin. The one thing that would _kill_ him. And he smirks.

"Not even Malcolm?" he asks, and Martin's face falls, just a bit. Just enough.

He swings his leg over to stand, and Martin grabs onto him, twists and trips him. John falls with a grunt, and Martin drags him back, reaches for the gun and then swings a knife John hadn't even known he _had_ towards him. It embeds into his thigh, and John yelps, scrambling away as Martin swears.

"No, no—" he says, pointing the gun at him again. "Stop, I'll shoot!"

" _Fuck you_ , John," Martin growls. "Touch him again and you can shoot me all you want, I'll _still_ slit your throat before I die." 

John grunts, holding his hand to where he’s bleeding, and sounds _hurt_ as he says, “You _stabbed_ me!”

“Not deep enough,” Martin says. He tries to bring himself up on his elbow, then crumples back to the ground with a stifled groan. 

“Yeah, I hope that hurts,” John spits, kicking dirt up over him to blind him and then hitting him again. This time the blow leaves Martin fighting to open his eyes again, and John easily snatches the knife from his hand and tosses it away. “Fuck you.”

“Jo...hn,” Martin manages, and John turns around, staggering to the other side of the car, yanking the door open, grabbing the chain hanging from Malcolm’s wrist, and using it to drag him out and back around. He throws the boy to the ground, far enough away that Martin has no chance of getting to him.

Martin shakes his head and rubs at it, smears blood over his face and groans, trying to gather himself. "J...John… _stop._ "

John gets to one knee, yanking Malcolm to sit up, and says, "I thought you didn’t love anyone.”

Malcolm sags forward with a moan, and then back against John when John pulls him, wrapping an arm around his waist, fingers spread just under his ribs.

Martin braces himself against the ground as it lurches under him, throws up and nearly faceplants down into it. Oh, no. _No._ Stay the _fuck_ awake...he is _not_ going to faint. That's the _last_ thing he's going to do.

He pants for breath, blinking hard, and then manages to sit himself up, pressing on his shoulder again. “I’m...tellin’ you, you…"

He spits a glob of red out, swaying a little, and John laughs. 

“Careful there. You’re sure losing a lot of blood. You know, I really just can’t be expected to remember everything from all that time ago. Did I hit something I shouldn’t have?” 

“Me,” Martin grunts, wincing with one eye closed. “Get the _fuck_ away from him.”

“Why? You don't love anyone. So I could fuck him, right here, make him _scream_ for me, and then blow his brains out, and you wouldn't care. Isn’t that right?”

He's going to kill John. He’ll fucking _kill_ him. Touching his boy, _threatening_ his boy. He’ll make John pay. He doesn’t care what it takes. If John wants _Martin,_ he can have him. But not Malcolm. 

He lowers his voice, carefully, and asks, "What do you want _me_ to do, John?" 

"Watch," John replies, and looks right at Martin as he presses a long, possessive kiss to Malcolm's mouth.

Martin growls and swears at him. Malcolm whimpers, his eyes sliding open. His hand raises, then falls back to the ground. John hums, tilting Malcolm’s head back towards him to deepen it, and Malcolm chokes and gags on his tongue.

No matter. He’ll learn to be thankful for it as much as anything else, to take _everything_ John gives him as the gift that it is.

"He's mine now," John says when he finally pulls back, and Malcolm’s head stays lolled back on his shoulder, forehead creased in distress as he gives little whines under his breath. He really does look so much like his father, the way his beard has grown out over the last few weeks...and yet, still so much more beautiful. 

"Mine. I'll take _such_ good care of him, Martin. He'll be happy, eventually. I know he will. Maybe he can even see you again one day, after he's learned. If you decide to live."

"That's _my job,_ " Martin hisses. " _My son._ He's mine to teach. _Mine_."

"No," John says. "I admired you, Martin. I did. But you failed him. You did. I _told_ you, twenty-five years ago, how you needed to teach him the word of God. You needed to get him _baptized,_ you needed to go to church. You didn't. I tried to teach him myself, and you almost killed me for it. He wouldn't have turned you in if you'd just _let me._ And you're trying to stop me again now! But I won't let you. I won't. You're in my way, _God's_ way, and I’ll take you out of it if you make me.”

“I swear—”

John grabs Malcolm hand and bends his broken thumb back. Malcolm screams, weakly thrashes for a moment until his strength runs out and he can only sob and plead. 

“Stop it,” Martin says, trying to keep his composure. He looks around for where his knife landed, but he can’t see it. No, he— _he_ has to be in control, he's _never not_ _in control_ —John can’t— “Stop it, John!” 

John twists it the other way, and this time Malcolm's cry is almost completely silent, his face contorted in pain he can't even seem to express.

"Then stop threatening me.”

Martin is _sickened_ by the sounds his son is making, the sounds he _isn't able_ to—and there's nothing Martin can do but agree. “Alright! Okay! Just _stop!_ ”

John hums, considering it, and then stops, resting his chin on the top of Malcolm’s head as Malcolm goes entirely limp against him, raggedly gasping for air. 

“What else do I want from you? Hmm…”

“Take what you want,” Martin says, gesturing pointedly at himself. “What you've _wanted_. I don’t have another weapon. I won’t stop you.”

John purses his lips, shrugs a shoulder. “I could,” he says. “It’d serve you right, for all those years. But you wouldn’t really _suffer,_ would you? I’m not sure you feel anything...except maybe for my precious little Malcolm. So I’m going to take him. And you’re going to watch. Maybe if you beg me, I’ll make it quick. How does that sound?”

Martin opens his mouth to speak, and then instead he chokes softly, his eyes rolling back, and then crumples onto his side.

John straightens up, frowning. "...Martin," he says, and then louder, "Martin?"

Nothing. Martin doesn't even look like he's _breathing_. He can't have... _died_ , right? No, John had been nearly _positive_ he hadn't hit anything vital, he— _no—_

" _Martin_ ," he says again, far more desperately. He gently lays Malcolm down and then stands, holding the gun out. 

"Hey. _Hey."_ He kicks Martin's leg, and when he still gets no response, he kneels down, reaching to check for a pulse.

Martin's hand grabs his wrist, and the gun drops to the ground. 

"Fuck!" John exclaims, reaching for it again, and Martin reaches up to punch him, breathing hard. He'd faked it, the fucking bastard, and John had _fallen_ for it, fallen for it just like he’d fallen for Martin’s _teasing_ , his faked affection, his _bullshit._ All to manipulate him. John had wanted Martin _so_ _much,_ more than _anything_ , and—and Martin had never seen it as anything more than _fun._

Martin lands a blow over his jaw, digs his nails into the wound on his thigh, yanks a handful of his hair and shoves John onto his back. The second he gets settled on John’s waist, John knows he won’t be able to win this. He’s not stronger. Martin’s got height and weight on him, and if his hands get around John’s neck again, he’s never going to let go.

Hand. His hand. He only has one, the other hanging limp at his side, his sleeve soaked through with blood. 

John slams his palm out, drives it straight into Martin’s wound, and then squeezes it as hard as he can, shoving his thumb into the hole.

The sound that rips its way out of Martin’s throat is the closest thing to a scream he’s given since he was a child. He loses grip on John, on _consciousness_ for a moment, and that’s all it takes for John to wriggle out from under him. 

“John—” he says, more of a gasp than the threat he means it to be, and John scrambles to grab the gun, then slams the butt over his head, _hard._

He blinks, suddenly laying on his back, and John hovers over him as his vision swims.

_No. Stay awake._ Malcolm...he has to... _Malcolm…_

John puts the gun to his head, and Martin can’t do a thing about it. 

“I’ll do more than you ever could for him,” John says. “And he’ll forget you. He’ll forget everyone. There’ll only be me, and God. Die knowing that, Martin.”

He tries to lift his head, to do _anything,_ and then John hits him again, and there’s nothing.

**x**

It’s takes a long time, maybe _eternity,_ before Malcolm manages to surface from his memories, to come out of fear in the past and into it in the present. His hand, his arm, his _body,_ all throb in unison with his heart, and he’s never hurt so _much_...he’s never wanted to _die_ just to escape the goddamned pain. Not physical pain, anyway. He'd always considered his tolerance high, but this...all of this, all of _everything..._ it's too much.

He remembers...he remembers his escape. He remembers hearing a gunshot, and being in a car with a cloth pressed over his face, unable to move away...he remembers John kissing him, _hurting_ him, because that’s _all_ John ever _does..._ and his—

His father. He remembers _Martin,_ hearing him curse and swear at John. 

But that isn’t possible. That’d been a hallucination, a dream. How funny, that for the first time it was of his father trying to _protect_ instead of hurt him.

He cracks open his eye, and he can’t see much. He can taste, though...he tastes _dirt._ Mud and earth and...well, he supposes he should be grateful that for once it’s not blood.

He spits, takes in a breath, and things start to come into focus. He hears the crackling of leaves, and sees boots pacing frantically in front of him. John’s, he recognizes, as many times as they’ve kicked and stepped on him. 

His gaze travels up, and John is clutching Shannon’s gun, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. 

And a little further than where he walks lays _Martin_ , motionless and covered in blood.

Not a hallucination. _Real._ How is he _real?_ Is he—is he—?

Malcolm lets out a cry, and John _startles,_ whirls around and points the gun at him before heaving out a breath. 

“You weren’t supposed to…” he says, lowering the gun. “No, I...I have to…”

“J...ohn?” Malcolm reaches out, his hand gently settling onto the top of John’s boot, and John kicks it away.

“Fuck off me,” he hisses, turning around, and Malcolm can hear how hard he’s breathing, thinks he might even be _shaking_ as he goes over to Martin, grabbing him and rolling him onto his stomach. 

And then he steps back, and points the gun at the back of Martin’s head.

No. Not _Martin_. Not _Dr. Whitly_. Malcolm’s father, it’s his _dad—_ and he screams out, _“No!_ ” and tries to pull himself up. He falls, and his hand clenches around something in the dirt, something he flinches back from because—

_No. Not—not that. Anything else._

John's finger twitches but doesn't pull, and he finally really looks over at Malcolm. "No?"

Malcolm fidgets with his sleeve, tugs it down with his teeth, and then shakes his head, claws at the dirt under him. "P-p-please. Don't, J-John... _John_...please...please…pr—pro—promise, I—I'll be g-good."

John scoffs, lowers the gun and starts pacing again. “Not good enough,” he says. “No. I need...he tried to take you, I have to—”

"T...t-take me," Malcolm says. 

“He _tried,_ but he won’t—”

“No.” Malcolm shivers, and looks up. “You. Take _me._ Nn...not...him. Me. Pl—please." 

John stops midstep. He stands there for a moment, considering. “Take you?” he asks, and laughs quietly. "I _planned_ to...what a turn, you offering me _permission_."

Malcolm's eye slides closed, and barely opens again. "J-just...don't," he says. "Leave him. I'll do...do a-anything." 

It more than interests John. He seems to forget Martin entirely, approaching to kneel beside Malcolm.

“Anything?” he asks, petting Malcolm’s hair, and that hurts just as much as anything. Malcolm groans softly, and John cups under his chin, lifts it up.

"Look at me."

Malcolm's eyes dart, but eventually he forces himself to look up. He flinches, wincing, and can't keep his gaze from flicking away every time he tries to meet John's. Agony shoots through his hand as if John is pressing on it again, but he’s not. He’s not, and that’s worse.

John smiles at him, at his fear, at the fear he _created_. He rubs Malcolm's lower lip and says, "Maybe. What will you give me, hmm? For his life?”

Malcolm’s breaths quiver as he struggles to keep himself steady. He doesn't have anything, he—he doesn't want to _give_ John the only thing he has left—

Martin groans, muffled against the ground, and John’s attention goes back to him until—

“Mine!” Malcolm chokes out. “Mine.”

Immediately John is looking at him again. “What?”

Squeezing his eye closed, Malcolm shakes his head. He doesn't...doesn't want to, he... _can't…_

He has no choice. 

“My life," he says. "My—m-my—I s-s...I su...aah..." 

He trails off, grits his teeth, and then forces the words out. 

" _I submit_."

John shifts. He grasps Malcolm’s throat in his hand, and says, “Oh?”

Malcolm nods, slowly. He swallows hard, hears the sound in his ears as John squeezes, just a little.

“Tell me who you serve, then.”

"God," Malcolm says, "I serve G-God, and…” He swallows again, but it sticks in his sore throat, makes him cough. “I...serve...you."

A shiver goes through John, and he leans closer.

"Oh, my Malcolm,” he purrs. “Say that again."

Malcolm tilts his head up. Tries once more to meet John’s eyes, and once more fails.

"I serve you,” he whispers, because he has to. Because there’s nothing else he can do, and....and maybe there was never meant to be any other outcome. His destiny, whether he wanted it or not.

John groans softly, and kisses him hard. 

It's more _loving_ than anything this time.

Malcolm clenches his hand, whimpers, and lets it happen. 

“Oh, I knew you’d come around,” John murmurs finally, breaking to pepper Malcolm's face with awful little kisses, beard scratching against his skin. “I did. Tell me again.”

“I serve you,” Malcolm says, almost without hesitation. His father groans again, and one of his arms moves, and Malcolm grasps John’s hand on his chin before John can look away and says it a second time.

“ _I serve you._ ”

John grins, and kisses him again. “You do. I am your _savior._ Repeat it.”

Cold has long since made his body go numb, but now Malcolm feels weaker. He sags a little, and realizes exactly what he’s done. 

What he _had_ to do. To save the man who _destroyed_ him, who killed dozens of people, maybe _more._

To save the father he still...for some reason... _loves_. 

Why...why does he…?

John sharply bites his bottom lip, and Malcolm yelps. 

" _Repeat_ it," John says, licking blood off his own lips, and Malcolm's stomach twists when he realizes it's _his._

“M-my...you’re my...s...my s-savior,” he says, and the words burn on his tongue. "I s-serve...my...savior."

John has never looked or sounded so _happy. “_ That’s good. Oh, you’re so good. So pretty. So _perfect_. I—” He grabs Malcolm’s hair and kisses him again, and, against his lips, murmurs, “I _love you,_ Malcolm.”

Malcolm flinches. He's never felt so exhausted. He takes a breath, wonders at what point it'll all become so routine, so _normal_ , that he loves John, too, and doesn't want to take another.

“My disciple. Just as Jesus had his, you are mine. My _beloved._ Oh, my Malcolm, I’m going to take such good care of you. All you have to do is be good to me, too. Are you going to be good to me, my beloved? Will you listen when I teach you? Obey my word and God’s?”

Malcolm’s eyelid is so goddamn heavy, but he forces it open again. Every time he thinks he’s as low as he can get, John finds some way to push him farther down. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, but he’s not even sure he’d have the _will,_ either. It just _hurts._ It hurts because he knows what's going to happen, now, and hurts _worse_ because he’s just handed himself over to it.

He supposes it doesn’t matter. John would have gotten his way eventually, because Malcolm has never been strong enough to stop him.

He's not Gil. He's not the survivor his mother had insisted. He doesn't even think he's _Malcolm_ anymore. He certainly won't be after a few months, a few _years..._

He can give in now, or he can get his father killed, and give in afterwards. In the end, it’s all the same. John still wins, because Malcolm was only ever playing a rigged game.

“Yes,” he says at last. “I’ll...be good...to you. And Him. I’m...y-yours.”

“You are. Finally,” John says. He kisses Malcolm’s forehead, so gently, and Malcolm doesn’t startle. His gaze goes to his father, then over John’s shoulder as John keeps kissing his face and cooing to him. It blends together in his ears, after a minute, and he doesn’t have to listen anymore. He feels a bit like he’s floating, just above his body, and he thinks it would be nice if he never connected down again. 

John meets their lips once more, and then finally pulls back. Malcolm feels tears on his cheeks, and not all of them are his own.

“W...why…?” Malcolm finds himself mumbling, because it _scares_ him, and John wipes at his eyes.

“My Malcolm,” he replies, “don’t you see? You betrayed your father, but now you’ve given your own _life_ for his. And that...that...that is repentance, little one. I've _done_ it. And with your first kill, I will have truly saved you. You’re mine, forever. And once you’re healed, we can make it _final._ For God lives in us, and his love is made complete in us. _Us,_ little Malcolm. His favorites. The messiah and his servant. You’ll come to love me, and God, and you’ll be grateful. You’ll see. I promise.”

More tears stream down Malcolm’s face, and John leans, kisses some of them away and makes them fall faster, makes him shake so violent it hurts his aching, injured body.

John's. Not his body anymore. _John's. Forever._

And somehow, he cries harder.

“Oh, ssh," John purrs, cupping his face. "Ssh. No more crying. You don't have to be sad anymore. We'll be one, my Malcolm. And we'll cleanse the world together."

John smiles at him, more genuinely than he ever has. 

And then he raises the gun, and aims it towards Martin again.

Malcolm's sobs catch, and he chokes, and then he grabs at John’s jacket with frozen fingers. “Wait—no, wait—J-John? John, I’m _yours!"_

“I know.” John hooks his arm under Malcolm’s, pulls him up as he stands. Malcolm groans, his legs unable to support his weight, but John holds him up, presses him against his chest so tightly Malcolm can feel his heartbeat pounding just as wildly as his own. 

“But I need you to stay that way. He escaped _prison_ to come for you. Just for you. I’ve seen him work. I’ve seen him _determined._ And now I've seen him really love you. He won’t let you go. I’m sorry. I-I don’t... _want_ to. I don’t want to. But I have to.”

“Please, John, _please stop,_ ” he says, reaching up to touch John’s face, to cup his cheek, trying to get his attention long enough that Martin can _get up,_ _please get up!_

Martin doesn’t. He swears, lifting his head a bit, but his eyes are still closed. He’s barely conscious. Not enough to stop this.

Malcolm hates him. He fucking _hates him._

Malcolm loves him.

And he has to stop this.

“J-John—"

John turns his head away from Malcolm’s touch, taking a deep breath. His arm is shaking as he puts his finger on the trigger again, settling his aim to Martin’s head. 

“John!" Malcolm whimpers, his hand trembling violently as reaches to touch John's neck. He doesn’t have the strength to fight John for the gun. He just doesn’t. He’s _weak,_ and he sobs, chokes as he desperately winds his fingers in John’s beard.

"Don’t! I-I’m yours! Yours, all yours! Stop! Stop, John— _John—_ I'll b-be good, I—I'll _love_ you, just—God, _just stop, please_ , please don’t make me—”

“Have to, little Malcolm. It has to be this way. It’ll be over in a second. He won't feel it. You can close your eyes. I won't make you watch. That's your reward."

Entirely out of options, Malcolm cups the back of John’s head, yanks him down, and crushes their lips together, crying against them.

John stops, making a noise in his throat. Malcolm’s disgusting, _pretty mouth_ distracts, just like he knew it would, because it always has. John’s never looked anywhere else. Maybe no one else has, either. 

The barrel drops to point to the ground.

And then Malcolm slides Martin's knife out from his sleeve, and buries it deep into John's chest.

John gasps against his lips. For a moment Malcolm can't move, and neither does John, and then Malcolm lets out a furious wail and twists the knife.

"I said _stop!"_ he yells, or maybe he whispers it. It echoes through the trees, or maybe just in his head. Maybe he doesn't say it at all. 

A line of blood trickles out of John's mouth, and he slowly, slowly falls to his knees, bringing Malcolm with him. Malcolm falls back to sit, and John clumsily reaches up to the knife's handle. 

He looks scared, for a moment. Malcolm sees _fear_ on the face he isn't supposed to be looking at, and he wonders if that's how John looked every time his grandfather locked him away. Frightened and desperate and...not a monster. Not yet. Not yet.

Made, not born. Not born. Could have changed. If Malcolm had just...gone _with_ John...he could have changed him. John hadn't let him speak enough to do it before, but maybe...maybe John could have _changed_ ...but the price would have been his father, his sanity, his... _everything._

Is he more worthy to live than either killer beside him?

Certainly not anymore, he isn't.

In a voice softer than any he's ever used before, John whispers his name. He sounds hurt. _Betrayed_. Maybe somewhere inside, he'd wanted Malcolm to help him change, too.

Guilt washes over Malcolm. He doesn't know why, will never in his _life_ know _why_ , but he wants to reach out, he wants to take it out, take it _back_. It was only choice...his only choice...John was going to kill his father, kill _more people,_ make Malcolm do the same until John changed or _Malcolm_ did—

And still he takes a shallow breath, chokes out, "I'm _sorry—_ " and _means_ it.

John looks at him, his eyes cloudy.

And then he grins, teeth stained red.

Malcolm reels. He puts his weight down on the wrong hand, and ends up on his back, staring up at the sky. 

Not real...right? No. No, nothing’s real. Nothing will ever be real again. 

There's rustling beside him, and he turns his head just enough to see Martin. He's dragged himself up to his knees, blood glistening wet on his face.

He looks rather content, really. Happy, as he looks at John. He notices Malcolm, and then he smiles, too. He looks at his son with _pride._

It’s the same way John had looked at him, he realizes.

Because at last, Malcolm’s been saved. John’s blood is on his hands, and John is _proud._ Martin is proud. 

Maybe they _couldn't_ change, but Malcolm could. Malcolm _has._

Everything is over. Everything is _lost._

_He_ lost. 

He’s just like them, now. 

"That's my boy," his father says.

He feels nothing. He hopes he never feels again.

A bird sings somewhere above him. It sounds mournful. A lamentation to something forever lost. Fitting.

Wings flutter out of the tree, the song dulling as it flies off, and, so mercifully, he finds himself fading away with it.

**x**

With a desperate, wheezing gasp, John’s eyes open wide. His chest hurts, the worst pain he's ever felt—oh, _Lord,_ why does it hurt so _much,_ he can’t—

“There you are,” Martin says, twisting something, and John pants, glancing down at the pen sticking out of his chest as air loudly hisses from it.

"Oh, apologies. It’s all I had, given the circumstances. Is that uncomfortable? I sure hope it is.” 

It’s easier to breathe, but more painful. Feeling starts to come back into his limbs, and he wishes it didn’t. He remembers his Malcolm, the knife...and when he looks, the blade has been removed, blood bubbling up from the wound.

“Tension pneumothorax,” Martin says, looking down at the knife in his blood-stained hand with disinterest. “Internal bleeding, too. I _might_ be able to save you. I’m certainly the only one who could, if so. I could even call for an ambulance, hold it closed until they came. You might survive. But you know I'm not going to, John."

"Ma…r…" John whispers, and Martin finally meets his eyes. There's no fondness there anymore, like there was from the first time they met. Just malice. The same glimmer that he'd get picking their victims, killing them, tearing them apart.

"You tortured my boy," he says. "My only son. _My_ son."

He presses hard on John's chest, and the pain whites out his senses as he tries to speak.

" _Had…_ " 

"Oh, I know. You think you had to. Tell me. Did you have to rape him, too? Is that what your God told you to do? After everything I did for you, is that what _you_ _did?"_

John’s vision flickers. Is that what Malcolm had told him? John doesn’t know how the boy is lucid enough to remember anything at all. Touching him? That had to be done. He hadn't even _finished_ , though Malcolm had responded so _beautifully_ to it. And Malcolm had been passed out cold, when he’d been in John's lap after his seizure, his _surrender_ , and John had been so euphoric on success that he'd pulled the boy close and buried his face in that hair and touched _himself,_ because Malcolm was so fucking pretty and broken and _his_ and he just couldn’t _stand_ it anymore, and when…

But none of it was ever assault, not with any of them. Punishment, reparations...and now love. He _loves_ his Malcolm. He'd never have hurt his Malcolm without a good reason. Malcolm is John’s, and John only follows God’s plan, which means it wasn’t the same thing. Completely different. And Martin should be locked away, gone, or dead. Malcolm should be upstairs in the cabin, healing, readying for their travel. It was such a long way to drive. 

Malcolm would have come to love him, too. With all the years they would have worked together, John knows it. John would have _made him._

He imagines his Malcolm covered in the blood of the wretched, kneeling at John's feet with his head bowed. John would have praised him. John would have taken care of him, and his Malcolm would have been grateful. That's how it should have been.

Should have, but won’t be. He knows now that this is how it was always meant to work out, but it doesn't make him want that any less.

Martin digs the knife into his shoulder. " _Is it?_ ”

"No—" John gasps. "He...I…" He coughs, and feels a thick line of blood dribble down from the side of his mouth. It's all he can taste. His throat is tight, and he's having even more trouble getting a breath now. At least the pain has dulled. 

"You really were my closest friend, John," Martin says. He drags the knife down John's arm, and John shudders and chokes as blood pours from there, too. 

“But I warned you. I warned you what I’d do if you hurt him again. Suppose I didn’t hit you hard enough. Should I have tried putting you in a closet for a few days? No matter. Bit late for that, now. Now I’m going to bleed you out, John. Are you in pain? You sure look like it.”

John looks up at him, trying to swallow, and only spits up more blood. “Mar…”

“Yes? Go on. Get it out. You won’t be able to speak much longer.” Martin slides the knife down his chest, mimicking the mark John left on his son, and then shoves it into his side, too. John cries out, weakly—

And then reaches out, his fingers grabbing onto Martin’s. 

Martin stops, frowning. John squeezes, and Martin glares at him.

“Are you looking for _mercy?_ Because I gave it to you, John. Twenty years ago, and today. And where did it get me? _Shot._ ”

“S’ry,” John mumbles.

“You’re—you’re _sorry?_ ” Martin echoes. “You’re _apologizing_ to me? Are you—are you crying? You pathetic little _fuck!”_

John gives something like a chuckle, then coughs up even more red. He doesn’t suppose he’s ever been much else. His grandfather had been right all along.

He was nothing until God gave him a purpose, until _Malcolm._ Malcolm had saved him as much as John had saved Malcolm. 

And he _had_ saved Malcolm. Because Malcolm not only sacrificed himself for the one he betrayed, but had killed. Even if Martin made it quicker, the wound would have taken him anyways. Malcolm has killed, finally. Just like God had always intended him to. And even in his death, John knows Malcolm will never forget that. Never forget _him._

“P...roud?” he asks, and Martin stabs the knife through his other shoulder and twists it. John doesn’t even have the voice to cry out.

_“No,_ ” Martin hisses. “Die knowing that, _John_. That, and how fucking _worthless_ you are.”

He’s lying. Martin _has_ to be proud. He _is_ proud. John knows he is. And more than that, God is. Because he’s done everything he’s supposed to. It was His plan all along. All of this. It makes sense. He was placed here to be Malcolm’s savior, and his death is the conclusion.

Martin slides the blade into his stomach, and this time John doesn’t feel it. Martin’s mouth moves as he says something else, but John doesn’t hear it.

His vision fades.

It's dark. It's so, so dark. Just like his closet. _Darker_.

He should probably be afraid.

Instead he smiles, just a little, because Martin never pulled his hand away, and he still feels their fingers touching until he stops feeling anything at all.

**x**

Martin doesn’t stop when John’s breathing does. He makes a face of disgust, drags his entirely numb hand out of John’s and curses himself for not noticing he _hadn’t_ yet and doing it sooner, and then keeps cutting. It’s cathartic. He thinks about John’s betrayal, and he cuts again. He thinks about Malcolm’s fear, his wounds, his _screams,_ and he cuts again.

Oh, he missed doing this. Twenty long, long years. His surgery on Ainsley’s boyfriend had done nothing but remind him how beautiful blood is, how _tempting,_ how much he liked to see inside when no one could stop him, and now he can. Finally.

And when there’s nothing recognizable left, Martin leaves him there to rot, which is more than he deserves. 

But John doesn’t matter anymore. Only Malcolm does. Only Malcolm.

He forces himself to stand, a task he finds much harder than the last time, and staggers a bit before steadying enough to get to the car. 

Malcolm hasn’t moved since Martin set him back in the seat, before he _tended_ to John. He’s far paler than he was before John showed up, and now Martin can see his breathing has become labored, his chest heaving with every shallow inhale. 

_He’s dying._

More adrenaline fires at the thought. It floods Martin's veins, keeps him conscious, keeps his head clear despite the blood loss and _definite_ concussion that he’s suffering from, and he jerks the car into drive and doesn’t glance back.

Why would he? John was useless. Always a useless fucking bastard. The world will be better off without him, and it’s no real loss to him. 

It takes half an hour for him to pull up outside a hospital, and by now he's weaker, and his vision is starting to double again. As easy to carry and horribly light as Malcolm had felt the first time, when he’d seen his son faint and thought he _died_ and shot to his feet with a rolling rush of fear that had made his hands tremble like never before, he's nearly too much for Martin to pick up this time.

But he does, because it's Malcolm. His son. His precious, perfect son. And he _will_ save his son, no matter what. 

Malcolm is so small and far too still in his arms. He's barely breathing, now. But he's still alive, and he can still be saved.

Martin staggers towards the door, leans against the wall as he enters the ER, leaving blood smeared on the white paint. 

" _Help,_ " he says, and everyone's attention is immediately on them. He hopes he looks just as good as he'd been picturing he would, heroically bringing his one and only boy to safety. He can imagine the headlines...or rather he _could_ , if things would just _stop spinning_ for half a damn second...

“Oh, Christ,” someone says, reeling back and away, “you’re—”

“Dr. Martin Whitly?” he grits out, breathlessly, and smiles a bit. “Yes. A fan? Pleasure. B-but I’m...oh, wow...I’m... _really_ about to faint...so if you...if someone could just…”

His arms shake, his vision darkening, and he lowers himself to a knee to keep from dropping his son. Blood drips down to the tile underneath them, and he has no idea which of them it’s coming from.

Malcolm makes the only noise he has in a long time, and Martin clutches him tightly. “I’m so...proud of you,” he murmurs into his son's ear, and the way Malcolm flinches gives him hope that Malcolm can hear it. “Remember that...my boy. Okay? So proud. Because…we're...the same."

Nurses surround him, start to pull Malcolm away from him, and he reluctantly lets them. He really wouldn’t be able to stop them if he tried. 

“Th—that's my _son,_ ” he says, “you be... _careful_ with him, y-you…you...I-I…"

The room tilts, and he slumps a bit. He thinks he hears Malcolm mumble for him, but he can't be sure. Can't really be sure of anything, when it's all this foggy.

Hands are on his shoulders, inspecting his wound, and he lets them. He tries to explain exactly what he needs, but then the pounding in his head becomes too much, and he finally lets his eyes close. 

Malcolm is safe. His Malcolm. 

His beautiful son, who had stabbed John _for him._

He'd always hoped. Always hoped. 

And now he knows.

_We're the same._


	19. Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply...Do Not Understand how to make shorter chapters anymore? Tsk. 
> 
> TW for mentions of minor character death (Jackie) from cancer. Also, everybody is just really fucking sad. Everybody gets some whump! Yay! Except John. You know, 'cause he's dead lmao. RIP in pieces, bitch. 
> 
> Enjoy (ㆁωㆁ)

Beat.

One. Two.

Again, again.

His heart. All he can hear. All he can hear except—

_"I'm so proud of you."_

Lights. Too bright. Hurting his eyes. Hands grabbing at him, pulling him away from safety, from warmth.

_Cold...please stop...please…_

Too weak to stop them. He can't...can't breathe. It hurts too much. Too much. Too bright.

_"Remember that, my boy. Okay? So proud."_

Hands all over him, tugging. Not safe. Not anymore. Scared. He's so scared.

_No. No, come back. Please come back._

"Dad…" 

"It's okay," an unfamiliar voice tells him, and shines an even brighter light into his eyes.

_'Look at the camera. What will your friends think of you?'_

_'It's okay_ ,' The Girl whispers, wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing.

_'Oh, Malcolm…what did you do?'_

_'Murderer,_ ' the others say. He doesn't know how many. Too many.

So cold…so cold...he needs to breathe and _he can't_ …hurts, _please_ …

Something is placed over his mouth, and oxygen fills his lungs. He gasps for it, desperate and shuddering, and at last feels relief. 

"It's okay," another voice says. "That's it. Just breathe. You're gonna be fine."

Not okay. _Hurts_. Too bright. So cold.

"Just breathe. Can you tell us your name?" 

No. He's no one. Nothing. Can't remember. Can't think. 

_Just breathe._

"We're going to take care of you, okay?" 

There's a needle in his arm, now. His first and only thought is—

_John._

John won't be pleased. No, he'd told John he stopped…John will be mad at him. 

_Filthy little junkie._

John will hurt him again.

_Filthy little whore._

No more. It hurts. Can't take anymore. 

_Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me. Please, I'm so sorry…just wanna go home...please. Home…_

Exhaustion overwhelms him, and he can't fight it. Too tired. Too weak. Always too weak. Can't fight anything. Can't _do_ anything. 

"Ssh. It's okay, now."

' _Just a dream. It was all just a dream.'_

Bad dream. All a bad dream. Nothing else. 

He closes his eyes, and hopes he opens them again somewhere nice. Somewhere _safe._

Still a child, snuggled into his father. A little older, wrapped in Gil and Jackie’s arms. Holding onto Ainsley after a nightmare. The rare hug from his mother. Just...

Somewhere safe. Please.

Safe.

He just wants to be safe.

_No._

_Never safe._

_Not ever again._

_They don’t want me._

_Never want me again._

_John—_

_John is dead._

_I killed him._

_I’m—_

_Dirty._

_Filthy._

_Murderer._

_Should be dead like him._

_Dead, dead, dead._

Maybe…

Maybe he _is_ dead.

And that's a good, comforting thought to drift away on, because dead is what he should have been all along.

_'Because we're...the...same.'_

Beat.

Another. 

Three. Four.

Then nothing.

**x**

The ring of his phone brings Gil out of a drunken sleep.

Not another case. Not yet. He’s so _tired..._ he just wants to _rest._ He had a few too many drinks...doesn’t think he’d be able to come in even if he tried. Too much...oh, his head hurts...he definitely shouldn’t have drank so much, and yet...it helps him _forget,_ and he still woke up so _easily,_ so maybe he didn’t drink _enough._

It keeps ringing. It grates in his ears, and he starts to feel nauseous.

“Hell…” he mumbles, shifting around, and then slips right out of the chair he’d forgotten he was in and hits the floor with a grunt. “Hell!” 

He thinks about how Jackie would have laughed at him, how Malcolm would have giggled, and concludes that no, he didn’t drink enough. Not even close. 

Rubbing his hip, he sits up and blindly gropes for his cell on the table. His fingers touch the picture of Jackie and Malcolm—he just can’t get _away_ —and he ducks his head, rubs his face against his shoulder as he finally snatches the damn phone up and—drops it, _goddamn—_ and picks it up again, holding it to his ear. 

“Uh...uh, I...uh—Arroyo. I mean...yes?”

“Lieutenant,” Swanson greets him, and she sounds...different. He can’t quite focus enough to tell what it is, and then—

“Bright’s alive.”

He grabs onto the chair, getting to his knees, and manages to suck in a breath. That’s the last thing he expected to hear, especially tonight. “ _What?_ What did—uh—what did you find?” 

“ _Him,_ ” Swanson says. “They found him.”

Whatever stupor the whiskey left him under vanishes in a burst of adrenaline, and Gil’s entire body shudders. A chill runs through him, and his heart starts to pound, and his hand is trembling as he rubs it over his eyes. 

A dream—it has to be a dream—he’s had so many of them by now, so many dreams of finding Malcolm, of picking him up and carrying him to safety, carrying him _home_ —this can't be real—

“They found him?” he whispers. “They—where—what— _Malcolm?”_

“Yeah. Two hours ago. He’s in New Jersey—”

“ _New Jersey?”_

“He’s in a hospital there, and so is Martin Whitly."

Gil covers his mouth. It's all he can do to stop himself from repeating her again

Martin Whitly, who had escaped from Claremont a mere eight hours ago, leaving one dead guard, two unconscious, and one missing.

Martin Whitly, who had been working with someone on the outside with the help of the now-missing man, who they’d discovered to have falsified all his paperwork.

Martin Whitly, who Gil had half-expected them to never find or hear from again.

The US Marshals had taken the case immediately, hadn’t let them even consider stepping _foot_ in it, and Gil’s first thought—his _only_ thought—was that this was it. This was the end. 

They’d never see Malcolm again, not ever.

Before then, they could search. They could hope. But Gil had considered how this could mean that Whitly had been working with Watkins all along, that Whitly had _planned_ this, all to get Malcolm back, and he'd suddenly spiraled down into a depression no different than when Jackie died.

He'd shut himself down. Seven missed calls from Dani and four from JT, and he’d ignored them. Knowing Jessica could use his support, he’d ignored her, too. He'd simply poured himself glass after glass and cried, for Jackie and Malcolm and _himself,_ until he was so numb he couldn't cry anymore. 

They wouldn't even let him _help._ Told the whole team to stay away from it, because they had ‘done enough.'

He'd really believed it, too. That, even if Malcolm _was_ still alive, Whitly was going to take him even further away, disappear with him forever.

And _now..._

"Are you—” he finally manages, just barely, “—are you saying that _Martin_ —"

"Yeah.” Colette scoffs. “He saved Bright's life. Jesus, the press is gonna have a fucking field day when this gets out…just get there as soon as you can, alright? I’ll send you the address.” 

He doesn't take the time to respond. He tosses the phone down and staggers to his feet, up to his bedroom to dress in whatever he can grab first. 

Nothing matters right now. Just Malcolm. _Malcolm._

_He's alive. He's alive._

He doesn’t remember the drive to the Whitly’s. He’s just _there,_ tears in his eyes, and knocking on the door, calling for Jessica when the housekeeper opens it and having to grab onto the doorway for support as Jessica approaches, confused and dressed only in a robe. 

She looks afraid, for a moment. But she doesn’t have to be, she _doesn’t,_ because—

"It's Malcolm," he says, "he's alive. They have him. They have Martin, too—but Malcolm's _alive."_

Jessica's eyes go wide, and she smiles like Gil's never seen before, like he imagines she hasn't in far too long. Rather selfishly, he finds himself wanting to see it more often. He's never seen her look so _beautiful._

Or maybe, nothing in the world could be anything less right now, because Malcolm is alive. Malcolm is alive, and they can bring him _home._

" _Ainsley!"_ Jessica calls, rushing inside, and Gil gestures at the officer parked outside the doorway for protection, flashing his badge.

The officer rolls the window down, leaning to look at Gil. “Whitly’s found?”  
  


“Yeah,” Gil says. “You’re good. Everything’s good.”

It is. It has to be. 

"Oh my God—" he hears Ainsley exclaim from the other room, gently nudging the door open and entering. "Where?"

"New Jersey," Gil says. "Not far. Two hour drive. I'll escort—"

“Oh, _no,_ ” Jessica says, almost laughing. “ _No._ Absolutely _not._ ”

Gil cocks his head. “What do you—”

“I’m rich, Gil,” she tells him, grabbing for her phone. “I don’t _drive,_ and I don’t wait two hours to see _my son._ ”

Gil figures he probably shouldn’t be surprised when she mentions a _helicopter_ , but he still finds his mouth hanging open a bit when she leads them up to the roof and one lands on a pad he hadn’t even known existed.

“Are you _coming?_ ” she demands, and he adjusts his coat, figures it’s probably not the _best_ time to mention his fear of flying, and climbs into it after her and Ainsley. 

"He's okay, isn't he?" Ainsley asks him. "Like...he's okay?"

Gil smiles at her, a little weakly. "He has to be,” he says, because...Malcolm _has_ to be, right? He’s always been okay. He has to be okay. 

He _has_ to be okay.

Gil's hands scrabble for purchase as the helicopter lifts into the air, and Jessica takes one of them in her own, squeezes it, running her thumb over his knuckles. 

Gil watches her, and then their hands. 

He thinks of Jackie, and then just of Jessica, and forgets he’s supposed to be afraid.

**x**

Dani is staring down into her cup of tea when she realizes she's dreaming. 

It’s the details, she thinks. They're always the same. She remembers it all vividly from the last time, and the time before. Bright brings her tea, and they talk. Sometimes it matches a memory, but recently it’s become something all its own, where they speak of things they’ve never brought up before, that they never _would._ Dani opens up to him, and Bright comforts her.

Kisses her, once. Maybe twice. 

She doesn’t know how she feels about it, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You’d make a wonderful mother,” Bright is saying, and she looks up at him. Remembers that soon he’ll fade away, and there will be blood on her hands, and she’ll be alone.

“Please don’t leave,” she says. 

Bright smiles at her, tilting his head. “Leave?”

She can feel things starting to fade. She’s never been able to lucid dream. The moment she figures it out, she wakes. But she doesn’t want to. She wants to stay here with Bright, because out there, she's starting to think she’s never going to see him again.

She can see _him_ starting to fade. Not a sudden disappearance like before. No, this is worse. This she has to watch. 

“Help me,” Bright whispers, and he sounds so _scared._ Tears of blood run down to his chin, and Dani’s never seen so much pain in someone’s eyes, so much fear. “ _Dani—_ ”

"Bright—I’m sorry—don't go—" She grabs for his hand, and it slips right through hers. "Please...I’m trying, no—Bright, I need—"

Gone. Everything gone.

Bright, gone.

_Forever._

She sits up with a gasp, tangled in blankets, and pants. Sunshine chirps in the distance, and she feels tears streaming from her eyes, soft sobs escaping her lips until she buries her face back into Bright’s pillow, clutching at it.

_'Help me.'_

Was he calling out for them, right now? For her? For Gil? Did he know how hard they’d been trying to find him?

And worse still...what if he thought they _weren't?_ He wouldn't just give up hope...right?

She can’t imagine how afraid he must be, if...if he’s even still…

_Stop._

She shakes her head, gets up, and makes herself coffee. It doesn’t feel right, being here, but being home had been unbearable. And she's lived there, _alone,_ for years. She doesn’t know why the loneliness suddenly became so overwhelming she couldn’t stand to stay there, had to go somewhere just as empty.

Sunshine tweets again, and she smiles over towards the cage. Not _so_ empty.

“You miss him?” she asks, and the little bird jumps and chirps. 

“Yeah.” She runs her hands through her hair and rests her head against the counter. “Me, too."

It’s quiet for a long while. She runs her finger along the rim of the mug until the coffee’s cooled enough she can drink it. She fills Sunshine’s bowl, and opens her cage to let her fly free.

She thinks about what Bright might be doing if he was here. Smiling at the way Sunshine dips and twists through the house, maybe holding out his arm for her to land on. 

God, Dani misses him so much she doesn’t know what to _do_ with herself. 

Her phone vibrates on the stand by the bed, and she groans, pulls herself up from the couch to grab it. Another case. Another and another and another, all the same, all without him. 

"Yeah?" she answers, and it’s Gil.

"Dani,” he says, though she can barely hear him. “They found Bright. He’s alive."

If she had been holding the mug, it would have shattered on the floor. She drops to sit on the bed, and holds her fingers to her lips.

She has to be dreaming again. She _has_ to be. Twenty days of nothing, no matter how hard they’d been trying, and suddenly…

“He’s…?” 

“Come,” Gil says, “I’ll text you the—oh, I'm—sorry—” 

She frowns, because it sounds like Gil is _heaving_ on the other end. “Gil? Hey—Gil? What’s wrong?”

“Hate flying,” Gil mumbles, and then coughs softly. 

“You’re _flying?_ ”

“With Jessica, and—I don’t—”

“Okay—okay, just—he’s _alive?”_

“He’s alive. Get JT. Sorry, I’m not—I’m gonna—” 

She winces, pulls the phone away from her ear, and then braces herself on the table for a moment.

Alive. Bright’s _alive._

He’s alive.

She smiles, and calls JT. 

“He’s _what?_ ” JT asks, and she laughs, _giggles_ like she doesn’t think she has in years.

“ _Alive,_ ” she repeats. “I’ll pick you up.”

**x**

He's alive, but Malcolm isn't okay. 

Gil knows it from the very second they mention his name at the front desk. The woman there freezes for just a moment, and then looks up at them. 

"Bright," she repeats, and nods, turning to the phone. "Yeah. Let me get someone."

Jessica catches it too. She doesn't miss much.

"She looked…"

"Scared," Ainsley finishes, tapping her hands on the counter. "I feel sick. What if he's—"

"He's _alive,_ " Gil says, and backs up a few steps. He feels sick again, too, but he doesn't think there's much more in him to come out after the five minutes he’d spent bent over upon landing.

He's alive. So even if he's not _okay,_ he _will_ be. Right? 

He's been through so much. _Too_ much. 

Gil can't lose him. Not again. Not ever again.

"Family of Bright?" 

They turn, all at the same time, to face a woman in a coat. 

"Y-yes, that's—" Jessica approaches her first, one hand pressed to her chest. "Please, that's my son. How is he?" 

"He's stable," she says, and Gil finally takes a deep breath. Jessica grabs his hand when he's a bit closer and squeezes it.

"What... _happened?_ " she manages, and the doctor looks down at their joined hands, then at her clipboard. 

"He was extremely hypothermic when he was brought in. We had to defib his heart back into rhythm. With warm oxygen and saline we got his temperature back up pretty quickly, and it's steady now, but...it's the injuries that are a bit more complicated."

Gil can't speak. Jessica only whimpers softly, and it's Ainsley who has to ask, "What...what kind of injuries?"

"He was stabbed," she says, and Gil nearly crumples to the floor. "Twice. His hand and his side, though we're most worried about the hand. Some of the flesh was starting to become necrotic. It's really, really lucky he got here when he did. Amputation could have been necessary after much longer. He was in surgery to repair what we could, cut away the skin we needed to and set the broken bones in his thumb, but the wound looks to have happened over a week ago, and it won't be easy to recover it completely. His side was abscessed, so we've incised and cleaned it and inserted a drain, but we'll have to see how well he responds to the antibiotics before going any further with that. We may not have to."

She pauses, and looks at them. 

"He was beaten," she says. "Repeatedly. Starved, denied water, and...tortured. I've...seen a lot, but this is…the most severe case I've personally dealt with. He had a chain around one wrist...and by the angle of the break in his thumb, it’s likely he did it himself to escape the other side. We had to get the fire department in here to get it off, and it’s clear he was in them for...weeks, if I could guess. Both wrists are badly sprained.”

“No,” Jessica says. “No, no, no.”

Chained. He was chained. For _weeks_ . The entire time he was gone, he was _shackled._ Gil’s going to be sick, whether there’s anything left or not.

“He very, very easily could have died. He's _extremely_ lucky. There was no brain damage on his MRI, but we'll do another scan later to be sure. The rest of the wounds are on his back and chest. Most were infected. They weren't cleaned or properly taken care of. He was lashed, we think with a thin branch, down to the muscle in some places, most worryingly his feet and back. Those will take the longest to heal, and he's likely to have trouble walking due to the pain for a few weeks, potentially longer depending on how they heal, but there shouldn’t be long-term damage.”

"Malcolm," Ainsley mumbles, and sits down on the nearest chair, grasping for her mother's other hand. " _God,_ Malcolm…"

Jessica whimpers again, much quieter. "Is he—is he in pain?"

"He's heavily sedated. He can't feel anything, I promise. And when he wakes up, we'll have him on a morphine drip, so he won't be in pain then, either."

"Can I—" Gil says, and clutches desperately at Jessica's hand. "Can we see him? I need to—we need to see him. Please."

She nods, and waves for them to follow as she starts to walk. "He's intubated for now, but again, he's not in pain. It can just be frightening for parents to see all the wires and tubes. And...like I said…you need to prepare yourself. He was brutalized. We have officers standing by, for security. I...I really hope you find whoever did this."

"We will," Gil says, voice low. Mark his fucking words, they will.

Jessica pauses at the wall just before the room the nurse turns into. She's still holding onto both of their hands, so they have to stop, too.

"Mom," Ainsley says, rubbing her arm, and Gil rests his other hand on her shoulder. His heart pounds, debating whether or not _he_ can find the strength to enter, and then Jessica pulls them both inside. 

Malcolm lays on the bed, with a nurse beside him, monitoring.

Malcolm is whiter than the sheets he's covered with. 

Malcolm looks _dead._

And Gil can't fucking _breathe._

"My _baby—"_ Jessica gasps, and she starts to weep, pulling away from both of them to approach Malcolm's side. "My baby, my baby boy, _Malcolm_ , oh, no…no, no…" 

She leans over him, trying to give him the most gentle hug she can, kissing his forehead. 

"Careful," the nurse murmurs, and she steps back, a hand over her mouth.

Gil gets closer, right beside the bed. He can hear both of their labored breathing, and he forces himself to inhale.

Malcolm looks so _fragile,_ so small _._ Cheeks sunken, bones more visible than they should be or ever were before. Cuts and bruises across his face, a badly blackened eye, a newly healed pink scar on his cheek and over one eyebrow. And most terrifying of it all, handprints around his neck, from a grip so tight that he can see each individual finger's mark.

He grips tight onto the side of the bed, and looks down at Malcolm’s hand. It’s wrapped in gauze, secured into a hard plastic splint by velcro straps. The plastic reaches halfway up to his elbow, but above it his skin is black and blue, and Gil knows with terrible certainty that it extends far under the sleeve of the gown he’s wearing.

The blanket obscures the rest of him, his other arm tucked under it, and Gil is glad. He doesn't want to see. 

He _can't_. 

_He was beaten repeatedly. He was stabbed. Starved. He was brutalized. Tortured._

And he looks just as one would expect after hearing that. Maybe _worse._

_Twenty days. Twenty days._ Nearly a month of torture. Nearly a month of beatings. Nearly a month of starvation, of pain, of _Gil not being there._

He wasn't there for Malcolm.

He'd promised twenty _years_ ago that he would _always be there_ for Malcolm. The wonderful, brilliant Bright who lit up his life, who Jackie had loved like a son, who _he_ loved like a son.

Malcolm _is_ his son. 

And he'd let his son down.

His stomach flips, and he fights nausea, swallows bile and clears his throat. 

"He's stable?" he asks, and the nurse nods.

“He's doing really well.”

Gil’s eyes go over Malcolm again, and he can’t help but disagree. 

_Stabbed. Twice. Beaten. Brutalized._

The machine hisses another breath of air into Malcolm's lungs, and it startles him. It should reassure him, because it confirms Malcolm is _alive,_ not dead, but it only ramps up his anxiety to an unbearable level.

"I-I—I need to—I need to talk to Dr. Whitly," he says, and Jessica turns towards Ainsley, shaking her head. 

"I want that bastard _dead,_ I—"

"Oh," the nurse says, and then looks as if she never meant to say anything at all when they look at her. "Sorry, I—"

"No," Jessica replies, " _please_ speak your mind on our business." 

Ainsley grabs Jessica's sleeve and tugs, and the nurse awkwardly coughs.

"I'm sorry," the nurse says. "It's just…I saw him carry him in. _Save_ him. It was crazy. Someone got a picture, said they're gonna sell it to the papers."

Jessica lets go of Gil's hand.

"I left that out," Gil murmurs. "I'm sorry." 

Jessica doesn't respond. She shrugs them both off, and goes to stroke Malcolm's hair, cooing softly to him.

He doesn't move. The machine keeps breathing for him. 

And Gil leaves, because he has to. He can't stare at that any longer. At Malcolm. 

At his _tortured_ son. 

The son he failed.

He failed his son, just like he failed his wife.

He couldn't protect either of them, no matter how hard he tried. 

Maybe her sickness hadn't been his fault, but this? 

This is on him. 

_He_ brought Malcolm into the NYPD. He didn’t _force_ Malcolm to join, but he had come to Malcolm for help, _asked_ him, offered a distraction, and he doesn’t know if, in Malcolm’s head, Malcolm had ever actually seen a choice.

This, all of this, is on _him._

He needs a drink. He needs something. His chest _hurts_ , because his son has suffered, and it's _his fault._

Without thought, he drives his fist into the nearest wall, splits open two of his knuckles and leaves a sizable dent with the force of it.

" _Sir—_ " someone at the nearest station says, and a few people have stood up, and _everyone_ is staring at him.

He shoves his hand in his pocket, offering them a weak smile as he steps up to the counter.

"Sorry," he says hoarsely, "I—" He flashes his badge, and they relax a little. "I need to know where Martin Whitly is being held. The room, I—hrm—I need to talk to him."

He can feel blood leaking down to his fingers, but he ignores it. It's what he deserves, for Malcolm.

"He's in surgery," one of them finally says, and he frowns.

"What? Why?"

"Says here a gunshot wound.”

"He was shot? Is—is he going to live?" 

"I can't tell you that, sir. I don’t know. I'm sorry."

Gil reaches up, rubs at his beard, and the nurse winces and murmurs, “Oh, hon, your hand…”

He looks down at the blood smeared over his hand, what’s probably over his face too, and shakes his head. “I’m—fine,” he says, backing away, and then slips into the closest hallway bathroom he can find.

His hands shake as he rinses the wound, and he thinks of Bright’s tremor. He washes the red off his cheeks, and he thinks how much blood must have been on Bright’s. He wraps paper towels tight around his fingers, and he thinks about how _horrific_ it must have felt to be stabbed through the hand, to break his own thumb to escape, to be _tortured,_ beaten for _weeks—_

He drops to his knees before the toilet, dry-heaving until there are tears in his eyes, and then sits back against the wall and lets them fall. Better here than out there, he supposes. He can’t let them see him like this. He _won’t._ Not Jessica. And not Malcolm.

If Malcolm ever wakes up again.

_Stop._

Malcolm has to wake up. He _will._ He's stable. He's doing well. He _has_ to wake up.

Gil stays where he is for a while, trying to breathe. And then he finally stands up, brushes himself off, fixes his tie in the mirror, and walks out, pausing outside the room as Ainsley steps into the hall with her phone in her hand.

“Please,” Gil says, his voice cracking, “no press. Not yet. We can’t—”

Ainsley scoffs, and shoves her phone back in her pocket. “I _wasn’t_. Is that what you think I’d be doing while my brother’s like...like _that?”_

Gil presses both index fingers to the bridge of his nose, and then closes his hands and exhales into them. “I’m sorry. No. I’m…”

“You look awful,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m getting Mom a coffee, and I’ll get you one too. Maybe...sober you up, a little.”

He looks at her, a bit warily, and she makes a face. 

“Like I couldn’t smell the alcohol on you. I’ll be back. Just…” She gestures. “Please don’t leave her.”

He nods, and with another heavy sigh finally manages to gather the strength to enter. If Ainsley had smelled it...oh, Jessica…

The bed is gone, as is Malcolm, and it makes his heart start to pound just to lose sight of him again. Jessica glances up when he enters, and then shifts a little in her chair. It’s small and stiff and uncomfortable, but he knows she doesn’t plan on waiting anywhere else.

“Where is he?” he asks, and she shakes her head, wipes at her eye and sighs.

"More scans, I...I think." She rubs her other eye and sniffles, gesturing vaguely and then staring down at the back of her hand. “They said…they don’t know how well he’ll be able to use his hand again...that he'll have trouble _walking_ , I—"

She covers his face, shaking her head again, and Gil tentatively approaches. 

“Jessica...I’m so—”

“Did you talk to him?” 

He clears his throat, clasping his hands behind him. “No. He's still in surgery. He was shot. Guess it's bad.”

He expects her to say _good,_ and is surprised when she doesn’t. Instead, she looks up at him with a watery gaze and asks, “Is it true? Did he—break out of Claremont to save Malcolm?”

Gil avoids her eyes, tries to avoid the _answer,_ rocking back on his heels. It’s not lost to him just how hard it’s going to be on _them..._ and he can’t even begin to imagine how Malcolm’s going to feel about it. He doesn’t _want_ to. 

The man who had broken him…saved him. 

As if the kid didn't already have _enough_ to deal with.

"It's possible," he says at length

“ _God_.” Jessica looks away again. “Oh, my God. What—what about Watkins?”

“I don’t know,” Gil says. “One of them is going to have to tell us what happened. They have police outside, just in case. I promise, you’re safe. _Malcolm_ is.”

“I just…” She curls her fingers, and wraps her arms around herself. “I just want to hold him. They wouldn’t even let me _hold_ him. I can’t...my _baby..._ he looked...he looked like…”

_Like Jackie._ He looked like Jackie, shriveling away to nothingness in her hospital bed, too sick to move, too sick to _live._

But he’s not her. He’s not Jackie. He’s not sick, he’s injured. He’s...he’s _badly_ injured, but he’s not Jackie. He’s not. He can’t be. 

He _can’t be._ Gil needs Malcolm. Gil needs him just as much as he needed Jackie, more now that she’s gone. Malcolm is all he has. All the family he has left. 

All the family he has left, and Gil couldn’t even _find_ him. Malcolm could have died, all because of Gil. Malcolm is going to be scarred for the rest of his life, _all because of Gil._

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself murmuring, and Jessica looks up at him. 

“What?”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head, paces for a moment, and then sits down in the chair beside her. 

“I’m sorry. I promised…” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, reaching out to take her hand. “I promised I’d find him, and—”

“Gil,” she says, gripping tight to his fingers. “Please. I can’t. Not right now. I can’t…”

“Me neither,” he mumbles, and leans forward, resting his forehead against his knee with a sigh.

And when she reaches out, almost absentmindedly starting to run her hand through his hair, he doesn’t say a word to stop her.

**x**

The kid is...small. Too small, too bruised, too still. 

JT believes he has control over his emotions, but the second he walks into the room, the second his eyes land on the kid they’ve come to call a friend over the past months...he feels sick. He feels sick, and he can’t hold back the disgruntled noise that comes out of his mouth before he finally manages, “ _Jesus._ ”

Dani nearly collapses. He sees one of her knees buckle, though she throws herself into motion and pretends it was nothing more than a stagger as she walks forward. Jessica looks up at her, offering a little smile, and Dani shakes her head, kneels beside the chair.

“Malcolm,” she whispers, and JT doesn’t think she’s ever called him that before. He doesn’t think _he’s_ ever called him that before. It’s just been Bright. The pretty rich kid who was always shoving himself into places he didn’t belong, conversations he wasn’t invited into, _pool nights_ he wasn’t supposed to be at. 

But he thinks now, for the first time, he sees _Malcolm._ He sees a fragile, vulnerable child. He sees a boy who’s been beaten, a boy who’s been hurt. A boy he remembers seeing just twenty days ago, perfectly fine in the conference room, sparring with Special Agent Swanson. 

Maybe not fine. Bright was never fine, as much as he liked to insist it. But he wasn't like _this_. He looks like he's been gone months. He looks…

He looks _broken,_ and it hurts. 

“Powell brought his medication,” he says at last, pulling his eyes away. “We gave ‘em to the nurse up front, so...”

“Thank you,” Jessica says, and he shifts, nodding, and then glances around. Ainsley is dozing in the corner, and Gil sits in the chair across from her, on his phone. He looks concerned, and takes a deep breath as JT comes over to him.

“What?” 

Gil shoves his phone back in his pocket, running his thumb over the scabs on the back of his hand. 

“Swanson,” he says, making sure to keep his voice low enough Jessica can’t hear. “Told me to let her know when he’s ready to talk about what happened.”

JT scoffs. “She doesn’t care how he is now?”

“I don’t know,” Gil replies as he stands, but they both can guess. 

“Whitly has to be out of surgery sometime, I'd like you to come with me."

“Sure thing." Anything to not have to look at Bright anymore. "Nothing on John Watkins?”

Gil shakes his head, gesturing at the officer outside as they leave. “That’s why we need answers. I don’t expect him to be any better than last time, but…”

He closes his eyes for a second. Gil doesn't need to finish, doesn't need to say that he thinks Whitly will be awake long before Bright. 

JT grabs them both a coffee, and they wait. He watches the television, but he hears none of it. Just thinks of Bright, of Bright's broken, bruised body.

And when he glances over at Gil, at the way he's staring off into the distance, his cup starting to slip through blood-stained fingers, JT knows Gil is seeing the same thing. 

"He's tough," he says, and Gil startles, looks at him and then takes a breath, shifting in the chair and stretching his legs out.

"Yeah. _Has_ to be. He had...a chain around his wrist, I guess. Watkins...kept him chained. Like a goddamn animal. Like the rest of the people he killed. And Bright…he broke his own thumb to get out."

"Fuck," JT murmurs, clenching his own hand. He doesn't know _what_ could possibly make him do the same. "My God. I... _fuck._ How bad off is he?"

"Scarred forever," Gil says, and his voice quivers, his red eyes watering as he tries to blink back tears. "I—I haven't seen, I...I just know what they told me. That he was stabbed. Starved. Beaten. Twenty days, JT. Twenty days."

"We did _everything_ ," JT tries, and Gil lets out a defeated-sounding hum.

"And it still wasn't enough."

JT doesn't give a reply. He doesn't _have_ one. 

He sits back, and tries to focus on anything else. Tries to _think_ of anything else.

Something drops behind the nurse's station, cracks on the floor, and he flinches, because he imagines it's what Bright heard as his bones broke.

No. Think of something else. _Anything_.

Not Bright. Not their failure. _Not Bright_.

He leans forward, pinches the bridge of his nose, and thinks of Bright anyways.

**x**

By late morning, the breathing tube is removed, and Malcolm breathes on his own. They move him into a private room, and start to reintroduce his medication. They say it's going to take time for him to feel better, but he's yet to even open his eyes.

"When will he wake up?" Jessica asks each time it's someone new who comes in, and they all say they can't be sure, they don't know, that time will tell.

"Shitty answer," JT mutters at some point, more than loud enough for the nurse to hear him. It makes Jessica smile, though, just a little, as she holds her son's hand.

Both of his arms lay above the blanket now, and they're horrifically bruised, torn into under thick bandages, the same kind she can see the edges of at the neckline of his gown. She can only imagine, only _fear_ , what's underneath it. 

They've splinted both wrists, so she's careful. She only holds the one that isn't broken. They're wrapped in gauze, too. _Badly damaged,_ the doctor had said. Badly damaged from the shackles John Watkins had put him in, from the torture John Watkins had inflicted upon him.

She's disgusted. And then she thinks about how this is all Martin's fault, and by default _hers,_ and she feels even sicker. 

Ainsley tells her it's _not_ her fault. Ainsley rubs Jessica's tense shoulders and says she couldn't have known. It just isn't possible.

But there had to have been signs. She _must_ have ignored them. 

She'd thought he was _cheating._

He had been _killing, drugging_ their son, and she'd only thought of herself.

She brought Martin into her life, and them into Martin's. She'd carried them to term, loved them as much as she could, only to have one of them end up here, in pain, suffering.

He shouldn't be suffering. He's suffered enough. Far too much. Thirty years on this godforsaken planet and only nine of them had been happy. Maybe not even that. God, maybe not even _that._

Dani's been gone a few hours now, resting alone in the car. Gil finally pokes his head into the room, looking first at her, then at JT, gesturing for him to come, and she knows that means that finally Martin is awake. 

Jessica closes her eyes. She strokes the back of Malcolm's hand, and then his cheek. Feels his exhales against her skin, and is more than reassured. He's alive. He's going to wake up, too.

She doesn't know when, but he will.

He has to.

**x**

" _Martin."_

It's difficult, but Martin's eyes finally slide open. As much as he's used to pain, it doesn't make his goddamn shoulder hurt any less, and he lets out a long groan as the lights burn into his eyes. 

"Shut up," someone else mutters, and Martin, _offended,_ blinks over at the second man in the room. 

" _Excuse_ me," he says, and then squints up at the bastard who could have _stopped_ all this from happening if he'd just _died_ like he was _supposed_ to. "Detective! Hello. Are we going by first names now, _Gil?_ My, how our relationship has grown…what _will_ be the next step? Oh...we could have _tea,_ perhaps…”

Arroyo exhales, very slowly. “Where is John Watkins?" 

"Ah," Martin says. His eye itches, but with one arm in a sling and the other cuffed to the bed, he can't do much about it. "Dear John? Well...he won't be a problem anymore…you can be sure of that."

Arroyo frowns. “What does that mean? Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

"I didn't kill anyone _, Gil,_ " Martin replies. It's a bit hard to keep his eyes open. The bullet had shattered against the bone, he knows. Without the copious amounts of medication, it'd be near unbearable to deal with silently. It's good, even if he's starting to slip off again. He doesn't want Arroyo to see him as weak, when he's anything but. 

"Did you know that man was my _friend?_ " he goes on. _Rambling_. Side effect. _Very_ drugged. "Ridiculous. I don't care for him. Or, didn't. Oh, yes, he's dead. He's dead, dead. He hurt my son. My son...” He coughs, clears his throat, and frowns. “ _Malcolm_. My boy. Where's…” He tugs on his hand, swears when there cuffs prevent his movement. “Where's Malcolm? Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Arroyo says. 

Martin smiles. “Oh, my boy! My boy. Of course he is. Can I see him?”

Arroyo _laughs_. Martin would gut him right here if he had the strength _._ And a hand.

"You'll never see him again, if I can help it.”

Martin clicks his tongue. There's nothing Arroyo can do to stop him. Malcolm is _his._ He won't lose his boy again, not ever. He's made sure of it. After all, how could one possibly refuse to see the one who saved their life? “No, that’s my...I s... _saved_ my boy, Gil. D'you know how?"

"I'd love to, so we can keep it from ever happening again."

Martin wheezes out a laugh. "Saving him? Because you couldn't? Yes...I suppose that's just…such a crime, isn't it? That's… _my_ boy, Gil. Where were you...hmm? What…did _you_ do for him? I'll t...tell you what you didn't do...help him. _I_ saved _my_ son. Not you. And he'll always...remember that. Does tha' make you angry, Gil?" 

Arroyo's eyes are red, like he's about to _cry,_ and it pleases Martin like nothing else could. "Oh, it _does._ Very good. Because…” He blinks, very slowly. “You're not his father. _I am._ You think you're…so…"

" _Enough,"_ the second man hisses, shaking the rail Martin's cuffs are connected to enough to startle him back to consciousness, and Martin glares first at the man's hand, then up at him. 

He looks familiar. Martin thinks back to the news, and to the paper, and to the pictures his confidant has slipped to him. 

"Tarmel," he says finally, "right? Another one who calls my son a friend…did you get drunk instead of helping him, too?" 

Arroyo snaps, just a little. He lurches forward and grabs Martin by his sling, pulls just enough it hurts, and Martin laughs again, slightly choked.

"Gil—" Tarmel says, and Arroyo tugs again. 

"Tell me where the cabin is. Tell me where Watkins’s body is.”

"How _will_ you get it out of me?" Martin asks. "Will you torture me? Like John tortured Malcolm? Do you _know_ what John did to my boy? To the boy you think you _love_ so much? The one you left to die?"

"You were the only one," Arroyo hisses, and pulls even harder. "The only one who knew. You wouldn't help us!" 

"Some detective," Martin says through clenched teeth, his fist straining against the metal cuff. "I bet he called for you. I bet he thought you'd save him, not me. But it _was_ me. _I_ saved him. And I hope that _eats you alive._ That he had to break his own hand to escape because you weren't there."

Arroyo tries to keep a straight face, but Martin knows it's getting to him. He wouldn't be _saying_ it if it wouldn't _work._

"And where were you?" Arroyo asks, unsteadily. 

"Me?" Martin pretends to think for a moment. "Why, I was in jail. Where you put me. But I suppose...leaving Whitly's to rot in cells is what you do best."

Arroyo _flinches_ , and then wrenches Martin's arm up, and Martin is grinning even as he can't hold back a strangled cry of pain. Tarmel hisses Gil's name and pulls him away, and Martin laughs through the tears in his eyes.

"You'll never see him again," Arroyo spits, pointing at him over Tarmel's shoulder as Tarmel guides him towards the door. "Not ever!" 

"We'll see," Martin says, snickering. As if Arroyo could ever keep him from _his_ boy. He won't, and he can't.

Malcolm will come back to him, just like always. He knows it for a fact now. It's just a matter of when. 

Just like it was never _if_ he would kill.

Just when.

**x**

Gil's never been so angry, not ever. Not at anyone. Not like this. The way Martin smirks at him, tells him he left Malcolm to _rot—_ it hits something deep inside him, and he doesn't know he's reacted until Martin yelps.

" _Gil—"_ JT says, starting to push him out of the room. 

"You'll never see him again!" Gil tells him, and Martin just keeps _smiling_ like the psychopathic bastard he is. Gil wants to beat that smug little expression off his face _._ "Not ever!"

Martin shrugs his shoulder, nonchalant, murmurs something Gil can’t hear, and then Gil pushes JT's hands off of him as they exit the room, gesturing for him to back off. "I'm _fine_. I'm—"

"Look, I'm not saying I didn't wanna do the same, but you can't just—"

"He's _right,"_ Gil says, leaning against the wall. "He's—I left Malcolm to _die_ —"

JT claps his hands down on Gil's shoulders, holds him there even when Gil tries to shrug him off.

"I really wanna slap you," he says, "but I'm not gonna. _Gil._ Stop. You tried. We tried. You can’t do this. You can’t. Bright needs you, okay? When he wakes up, and he _will,_ he’s gonna need you. You can’t do that if you’re in jail for assault, okay, man? Just breathe.”

Gil does. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the wall. “Right.”

“You good?”

“I’m good,” he says, and JT releases him, stepping back. 

“You didn’t leave him to die,” JT tells him, rather sternly. “Okay? None of us did. _Martin_ did. He was the only one who knew where the kid was. The only one. We did what we could with what we had. Like you said, it wasn’t enough, it _wasn’t,_ and don’t think we don’t feel just as guilty, but it wasn’t our _fault. Watkins_ kidnapped him. _Watkins_ hurt him. Not us, and sure as hell not you. Don’t have to be a profiler to see how much you love him, and know you’d never do somethin’ to hurt him. Everything was against us from the damn start. It was _especially_ against Bright. And hell, Owen Shannon didn’t get it all that great, either.”

Gil nods, swallowing hard. JT’s right. Bright could be dead. He’s not dead. He’s not. He's not like Jackie. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s _alive._

“Whoa,” JT murmurs, almost awkwardly, and Gil realizes there are tears down his face again, wiping them away and waving dismissively. 

“You want another coffee or something?” JT offers after a moment, and that’s not what Gil _wants_ to drink, but fine. He’ll take it. So he nods, and JT takes another step back. 

“Alright. I’ll get it. I'll check on Dani, too. Just...relax, okay? And don’t talk to him again. You’re not gonna get anything else out of him. That’s gonna have to be the kid.”

“Yeah,” Gil agrees, sighing. “Yeah. Alright. Yeah.”

JT gives him a little smile, pats him on the shoulder, and goes off. 

Gil composes himself, and then approaches the officer in the chair outside the door. 

“I want two guards here," he says. “I want _two_. And I want two outside Malcolm Bright’s room, too. Until we have a body, I can’t confirm John Watkins isn’t still out there, and I need them protected, and _him,_ ” he gestures, “under lockdown. I want him checked every half-hour until he’s out of here. Understood? You know who that is, don’t you? The Surgeon?"

“Yes, sir,” the officer replies, and the way he shifts almost makes Gil feel bad. He’s young, likely a new recruit. His eyes are big, pale blue, and look a bit like…

Gil softens his tone, putting a hand on the officer’s shoulder. 

“You’re doing good,” he says, and the officer’s eyes dart for a moment. 

“Ah—thank you, sir.”

“Yeah,” Gil says, releasing him, sounding just a little too choked. 

He’s better than this. He can _control_ himself better than this. He’s never been this way around…

Malcolm. Oh, Malcolm.

Jessica is dozing in the chair beside Malcolm’s bed, Ainsley on the lounger in the corner. He doesn’t want to bother them, knows they need sleep even more than he does, and so he's careful and quiet as he goes to Malcolm’s side.

Still pale. Still asleep. Still.

“Kid,” he says, and takes Malcolm’s hand from where it lays limp beside Jessica’s. 

“I'm…” He heaves out a breath and hangs his head. “Kid, I’m so sorry. You have to know how hard we tried. How hard _I_ tried. Okay? I thought about you. Every day. I thought about you and Jackie, and I missed you. So damn _much,_ kid. It...doesn't help now, but I want you to know that, if you can hear me. That, and...I’m so sorry. We...I just…” 

Jessica shifts in the seat, and Gil looks at her, cringes inwardly almost like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

And then she looks at Malcolm, and gasps.

“Baby—?” she says, and Gil’s head jerks to the left, looking down at Malcolm.

Just barely, just a crack, his eyes are open. 

“Malcolm,” he whispers, as Jessica calls for Ainsley. “Hey, kid. You with us?”

Malcolm’s eyes slide open just a little more, one still mostly swollen shut, but he doesn’t look at any of them. Jessica grasps his other hand, gently as she can, and Ainsley holds onto the side of the bed and murmurs, "Mal?"

Malcolm doesn’t react. Doesn’t even _blink._ Just stares off at the wall, even when Gil calls his name again, even with Ainsley waves in front of his face and Jessica peppers his cheeks with kisses.

"I don't—" Jessica says. "Why isn't he—should we call— _nurse!_ Doctor! Hello? Someone get in here!" 

Gil grabs for the remote hanging from the side of the bed, and hits the red button. 

“Do you have an emergency?” comes a voice over the speaker on it. 

“Yes—yes, for Malcolm Bright, I need—we need someone in here, something’s wrong.”

“Sending a nurse. Just a second.”

“Oh, God, oh, Malcolm, baby,” Jessica is murmuring, cupping his face. “Hey. Malcolm. Baby boy, look at me. Please look at me. What’s wrong, darling? Oh, don’t do this to me.”

Malcolm’s eyes don’t look like he’s awake, not really. They’re glassy, wet, dazed in a way Gil hasn’t seen since he was a child, since the times he’d spend the night and wake up from a night terror and cling to Gil and shake, staring into the distance like he’d just been to _war_ until he finally slipped back into sleep _._ Gil drops the remote, taking a step back, and then moves completely to the side to allow two nurses to take his place.

“Mr. Bright?” one asks, shining a penlight into his eyes, while the other checks the line to his IV, then his vitals. “Mr. Bright, can you hear me? Can you say something?”

Malcolm still doesn’t, and Jessica starts to cry. 

“What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with my son?”

“Vitals normal,” the second says, “BP ninety-three over sixty-two.”

“What’s _wrong_ with him?” Jessica demands, and the first nurse looks at her. 

“Please, let us find _out._ I’ll get a urine toxicology out, blood test. Let’s get him down for a CT.” 

“Right,” the second agrees, kicking the break to the bed, and then Jessica has to let go of Malcolm’s hand as they roll it out of the room, and it only makes her cry harder as Ainsley clutches at her. 

“My baby, my baby…”

“Is—is—is he—?” Gil tries, but they brush him off, say they don’t _know._

They don’t know. They don’t know if Malcolm’s dying. They just don’t _know._ How can they not _know?_

“Mom,” Ainsley whispers, and Jessica turns to her, allows Ainsley to wrap her arms around her. 

“It’s okay, Mom...it’s okay. He’s gonna be okay…”

Gil sinks into the nearest chair and clasps his hands in front of his mouth. 

They don’t _know._

They don’t know why he looks like Jackie had in her final days. 

Dying. Fading. Eyes open but unseeing, no longer really with him no matter how loud he begged for her to come back or how hard he cried.

Gone. 

Malcolm might already be gone.

“Wh-what do you mean?” he hears Dani ask at some point, and JT’s nudging his arm with a coffee, but he doesn’t move.

He just sits there, quietly, and waits until the nurses finally return Bright to the room, and a doctor waves Jessica out into the hall

Gil takes one look at Malcolm, at his still-blank eyes, and follows Jessica.

"We've done every scan we can," the doctor is saying. "There's nothing wrong with his brain. It’s not a stroke. All his vitals are normal."

Jessica trembles, just a little. "Then...why is he…?" 

"Well...because we've ruled out everything else, there's only really one thing it _can_ be. It's known as conversion disorder. There's no real diagnosis...only process of elimination for everything else. It can result in catatonia, which is what he's exhibiting. The staring, the lack of response. It's brought on by trauma, and it's a bit like the brain's way of dealing with it. It's stress manifested in physical symptoms. And it's more common in people with...well, in people with Mr. Bright's state of mind, even before this all."

"Is he going to be okay?" 

"Physically, he's in no danger. He's stable. Remember that. But there's simply no way to tell when the symptoms will wear off. It could be a few hours...it could potentially be up to ten days or longer. With the reintroduction of his medication, it should help him come to sooner rather than later. Right now the best thing you can do is be there for him. It's just a matter of time."

Jessica scoffs as they're once again left alone in the hall. "Just a matter of time. Just a—so they can't _help_ him? My son is—my son is _broken—_ "

"Jess," Gil says, grasping her shoulders, and she hangs her head. "Don't hurt yourself more. Please. Malcolm's strong. He's—"

"He's _here_ because of _you_ ," Jessica says, pulling away. "I told you to stop him. I told you. You were supposed to keep him _safe_ and—"

Gil chokes. It's _loud,_ cuts her off, and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth and tries to keep himself together.

"Please," he says finally. "Jessica, _please._ I...I can't…"

She shakes her head, and it's quiet for a minute. And then she mumbles, "Neither can I," and goes back into the room. 

Gil wants to follow, but he doesn't. He leaves her be. 

Instead, he finds himself wandering towards the cathedral. 

It reminds him of Jackie. Everything reminds him of Jackie, or Malcolm, or something that _hurts._

He sits there, alone, for a long while.

And then he leans forward, clasps his hands, and prays. 

**x**

It takes two days before Ainsley finally convinces her exhausted mother to check into a hotel to rest a while. JT finds a room for the rest of them, takes a few hours there, and Gil doses in the corner chair of Malcolm's room, promising to stay as long as Jessica is gone. 

Dani stands still, letting the door close quietly behind her, a cup of coffee in her hands. 

She wishes it was tea, and she wishes Malcolm was sharing it with her.

She sits down beside the bed, and takes Malcolm's hand, lacing their fingers together. His are cold against hers, and she hopes she's warming him up.

"Oh," she says quietly, when she notices Malcolm's eyes are open. "I, um…hi. You don't mind, right?"

She squeezes his hand and offers a little smile, though she doesn't think he can actually see it.

"JT went back yesterday to get some of our stuff, so you know. None of us are leaving until you can, too. Doesn't matter how long it takes." 

She fiddles with his fingers, stroking them with her own. "You know...I don't actually know JT's name either. I was thinking of that. Kind of stupid, right? I'm kinda curious now." 

She glances at Gil, still sound asleep, and then back at Malcolm with a scoff.

"You think Gil knows? He's probably seen the guy's files, right? He totally knows. He—"

She chokes and lowers her head. 

" _Shit._ I need you to wake up, Bright. Okay? You can't just...you can't do this. You can't be here but not _be here._ I need you to come back. I need you to...I need _you._ You're my friend. My _best_ friend. I've never...never felt...uh—" 

She wipes her eyes, clearing her throat. "I just, uh...I've never trusted someone...like I trust you. Only Gil. Gil, and you. So I...I need you to come back. Because we all...love you, okay? _I_ love you, stupid. You're one of us. So come back. _Malcolm,_ come back!"

He doesn't. He just stares. Gil shifts in the chair, and Dani sniffles softly before glancing over to meet his eyes.

"He's going to," Gil says, and she scoffs.

"How do you know? What even gets a person like this?"

Gil breathes in deeply, sighs it out. "Torture," he replies, and she closes her eyes. 

"Watkins is still out there?"

"Whitly says he's dead. I don't know...if we can know without Bright. We just have to wait for him."

Dani nods, sitting back. She pulls her hair back, ties it loosely, and rubs at her face before looking back over at Gil. "How long?" 

Gil gives her half a smile. "He didn't speak for almost a year, after his father's arrest. Mutism was how he coped." 

"A _year,_ " Dani repeats. 

"But he wasn't...like this," Gil goes on. "He went on...almost like normal. Jackie even tried to teach him some sign language, but…it was the communication he didn't want. He just...shut it down. And sometimes he'd look like that. After nightmares, or…he'd just…dissociate. In the middle of something, he'd just...stare. But he came out of it pretty quick. Not like this. Not _days._ "

She looks at Malcolm. "You can't do that," she says, patting his hand. "Okay? Not that long. You can…you can rest, but...not that long. Who's gonna ramble to us, huh? That's your job. JT hasn't been bothered in _weeks._ You have to get back on that. Seriously."

Gil snorts, rubbing his eyes and adjusting himself back into a position to sleep, and then sighs as his phone vibrates loudly in his pocket.

Another case? That's...too soon.

"I don't want to leave him," she says as he reaches for it, and Gil sighs. 

"Yeah. I know. Oh, hell…" He rolls his eyes and answers, " _Yes,_ Agent Swanson?"

Dani focuses back on Malcolm, for just a second.

And then Gil says, " _What?_ " with such _horror_ that she's immediately on her feet, coming over to his side as he stands up.

"What?" she asks, and he looks at her, then puts the call on speaker.

"—you into the call," Swanson is saying, "just listen."

And suddenly, they hear a woman crying.

"Help me."

"I'm trying, ma'am," another voice tells her, "you have to give us a location, okay? So I can dispatch police. Where are you?"

Please, I—I don't know. A cabin, I think. S-somewhere. New Jersey. I—I live in New Jersey. There was a man—the man from the news. He took me. He hurt me. I'm hurt. R-really hurt. Please help me."

Malcolm whimpers.

It's the first sound he's made, the first reaction he's given, and they're immediately by his side again. 

"Bright?" Dani asks, gently moving a piece of hair out of his face. "Bright, you there?" 

Nothing. Quiet again. 

Gil exchanges a glance with her, and then bites his lip. "This is a problem," he says to Colette.

"You think? It's a satellite phone, but there's a storm coming in and they're having trouble getting any sort of tracking on it. She's in Wharton State Forest, the one next to the hospital. We're getting a search going, but the area's huge. So you better get Bright up, or I will."

"Get him up? He's _catatonic._ " 

"That's sure convenient, isn't it? How about you tell him this: if that girl dies, I'm charging him with murder. See if that works. If not, I'll know it's real, and we'll go from there. I'll see you soon, Lieutenant."

The line goes dead. Gil stares down at it, stunned.

"Gil," Dani murmurs, and he looks over to them.

Malcolm's hand is shaking violently, clenched into the blanket. He whimpers again, though much softer, and Gil grasps his hand.

"It's okay, kid. Can you come back to us? Hmm? Malcolm? You're safe. You're okay. Squeeze my hand, say something. Anything."

Malcolm doesn't. His eyes are teary now, but they still just stare.

"She can't charge him," Dani says, but it's uncertain, much more of a question than a statement. "She wouldn't."

Gil doesn't respond. He just rubs Malcolm's hand, and then starts stroking his hair.

"Come on, kid," he murmurs. "Come on. Malcolm. Come back." 

A tear runs down Malcolm's cheek, and his hand continues to tremble. Gil wipes it away before looking at Dani. 

"What do we do?" she asks. 

Again, Gil stays quiet.

He doesn't know, she realizes. 

"Shit," she says, sitting back. She glances out the window, and sees snow starting to fall from the dark clouds rolling above. 

If there's still a girl in the woods, three days after Malcolm's rescue, she won't live much longer. Not without heat, without medical attention from whatever injuries she had.

And their one lead to find her isn't even _conscious._

"Come on," Gil is saying again, more urgent, more desperate, and she presses her hands up over her eyes, unable to look at Malcolm's anymore. 

"Come on, Malcolm. Come back."

And still, he doesn't.

And still, the room is quiet. 

And still, she wonders if he's ever going to come back at all.


	20. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. I got the next two chapters almost completely finished so they won't take as long as these last two did. We are back on board babey. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me! Sorry for causing more trauma on Prodigal Sonday :)

“Malcolm.” 

Jessica doesn’t even _expect_ a response, and somehow it still hurts that Malcolm doesn’t give one. 

Every time she sees him blink, a quick, automatic movement, nothing conscious about it, she thinks _maybe_ he can see her. _Maybe_ he's coming to. _Maybe_ this nightmare of hers can end. 

But it _doesn't._ It just _won't._

She holds her son’s hand, pressing it to her cheek, and shakes her head. “My baby...I’m sorry. You know that, right? For everything."

She glances at the door where Gil is standing with his arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable arrival of that damned federal agent Jessica’s been hearing such _wonderful things_ about, with Dani and JT downstairs to do what they can to quell her anger before she comes up.

Jessica won’t let her hurt Malcolm. Not anymore. It’s horrific what Gil had told her on the phone, when he’d called her to tell her to come in for Malcolm's sake, but she won’t let her son be interrogated in this state. The best lawyers money can buy are always just a phone call away.

Gil breathes out rather heavily and leans against the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He’s exhausted—they all are—and he's still standing guard. Protecting her son any way he can. Jessica feels a pang of guilt for what she’d said days ago and never yet apologized for.

It isn’t _entirely_ Gil’s fault. He’s always wanted what’s best for Malcolm. It had made her _jealous_ how caring he and his wife had been to Malcolm, the way Malcolm had gone to _them_ for comfort instead of her. The way her son never wanted to be home, not ever. The way his nightmares got even worse whenever he was, and the way he chose to spend the night at Gil’s more often than not.

And what could she do? Tell him he had to stay? She’d tried that once, and Malcolm had started to cry. Loud, inconsolable sobs that had made his legs give out from under him, and he’d only pushed her away when she’d tried to hold him. She’d had no _choice_ but to let him go. How could she do anything that would hurt him more? More than Martin or she had already?

She knows she wasn’t there for him, especially after the arrest. She _knows_ that, more than anything else. Of course he’d gone to Gil, to Jackie, to attention and help and _love_ that she just couldn’t give him. She hadn’t even been able to handle her own emotions, let alone her son’s deteriorating mental health. Instead, she drank and took pills to forget. It’s what she’s always done best. It’s what she’s _been_ doing these past weeks, while her son was suffering. Suffering so much that he’s become... _this._

She kisses the back of his hand, reaching out to touch his cheek. So many bruises, all over him...she’s never seen the dark circles under his eyes so pronounced...he looks awful. Sick. 

Her son looks just as broken as the doctors have told her he is.

And her son shouldn't be broken. He's never been broken. He's been through so much, this _can't_ be what ruins him. After surviving Martin Whitly, bastard that he is, John Watkins _can’t_ be who breaks him. 

She cups his chin, tilts his head towards her, and then back. There’s no resistance. He stays in whatever position they put him in. The doctor had called that normal, raised his arms and watched as they remained there until lowered again as an example and told them it was just another symptom. The doctor had given him two doses of medicine over the day, with no luck. Not to worry, they said, because not everyone reacted the same way to the same medications, especially those who has been on benzodiazepines previously as Malcolm was, and those with a history of abuse.

Not to worry, they said, because Malcolm was, probably, going to be fine. Probably. Because they couldn’t know for _sure._ They couldn’t quite be _certain._ No matter how many times Jessica yelled at them it didn't help, and they didn't have answers for her.

She closes her eyes against the tears, against the sight of Malcolm staring into _nothingness,_ and sniffles.

“My baby. Please come back to me. Please?”

There are hands on her shoulders, and she leans into Ainsley's touch. Her beautiful daughter...she’s so proud of Ainsley, so proud of _Malcolm._ She hasn’t told them that enough. Definitely never told _him_ that enough. 

"He will," Ainsley says. "He's going to. It's _Malcolm._ He's always okay." 

Maybe not this time. She's never seen him like _this_ before. Not for...how long has it been? Going on three days now? Too long. Far too long.

She kisses Malcolm's fingers again, forces herself to look at him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry." 

Malcolm blinks, much slower than the sporadic ones they’ve seen, and his finger twitches against Jessica's cheek. It startles her so much she nearly pulls back, but instead she squeezes harder, getting a little closer.

"Baby?" she asks, and feels Ainsley clutch at her shoulder.

"What—"

"He moved. Did you see it?"

"I wasn't loo—"

"Just a little, I felt it. I know I did."

" _Mal?"_ Ainsley asks, rounding to his other side to grab that hand. "Malcolm?"

"Malcolm," he says, in the most terrifyingly eerie, raspy, airy voice she's ever heard, and she gasps. Jessica jumps, and Gil turns around.

"Did he just—?" he asks, and the second Ainsley nods Gil is coming to their side, his eyes wide and excited. "Kid? Can you hear us?”

“Squeeze my hand,” Ainsley says.

“Come on, my love,” Jessica murmurs, stroking her fingers along his arm. “Come back.”

Malcolm’s expression never changes, but he mumbles, “C-come back,” and blinks several times more, his hand violently shaking. 

Unnerved, Jessica glances up at Gil, and then at the nurse who rolls her cart through the doorway, stopping at the computer in the corner.

“There’s something wrong,” Jessica insists, and the nurse smiles kindly, sympathetically, approaching them with a syringe in her hand. 

“What is that? What are you giving to him?"

"Another benzodiazepine. A strong dose. We’re hoping he reacts more positively to this one.”

"He just spoke," Jessica says, too hopeful, and the nurse looks at Malcolm’s monitor, touches his chin and tilts it towards her. 

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks, and Malcolm blinks hard, still never once looking _at_ any of them.

“Y-your name,” he replies, and she shines a light in his eyes again. 

“Mr. Bright?”

Malcolm’s hand seems to shake even harder, and he once again repeats her.

“It’s echolalia,” she says finally. “It’s a symptom of catatonia. He isn’t aware of what he’s saying. We see it a lot, in schizophrenic patients and patients with psychosis. I’m sorry.”

“S-s-sorry,” Malcolm says, and then whimpers softly, and Jessica presses her head against the mattress, next to his hand.

“He moved,” she says. “He did. I felt it." 

“I’m sorry." The nurse injects the syringe into his IV line, and then steps back to look at them. “He could be waking up, but we just won't know until it happens. This'll take about an hour, if it works."

“Sorry,” Jessica snorts. “That’s all you can say. _Sorry?_ Just fix my _son!_ ”

Ainsley hugs her from behind, and gestures dismissively at the nurse as Jessica leans over and sobs.

“Mom, it’s okay,” she murmurs, petting hair out of her mother’s face. “It’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”

“ _Look at him_ ,” Jessica whispers. “Look at him. He’s not.”

“You can’t think like that. You can’t. He’s gonna be fine.”

Jessica pulls away, standing up. She can't _do_ this. She doesn't want to. She needs a drink. _Desperately._ But she can't leave long enough to find a liquor store. She can't leave her _son_ to get _drunk._ Not again. Not ever, ever again. The fact that she _wants_ to is bad enough. The fact that she's done it before...so, so, so many times before...

"I'm...going to get a coffee," she says. Yes, that'll work instead. For now.

"I’m coming with you," Ainsley says, and Jessica reaches out and strokes Ainsley's hair behind her ears and cup her cheeks. Ainsley looks startled, and she knows she's never been good with affection, but God, if Malcolm just wakes up...she'll never fail them again. She'll give them anything they want, everything she always should have.

"Of course, love." She looks to Gil, and Gil offers her a nod.

"I'll stay with him.”

"Call me if _she_ comes," Jessica says. "I don't want her in here without me." 

Gil somehow looks even _more_ tired from the very idea. It's not a very promising expression. It definitely doesn't make Jessica feel any better, though she's not sure much could besides Malcolm coming back.

“Yeah," Gil says. "I don’t...I don’t know when. Just soon.”

“Wonderful,” she says, wiping her eyes, and Ainsley takes her hand as soon as they’re in the hall, leading her away down it.

**x**

Beat.

One, two.

A breath.

In, out.

Blood rushing through his ears, air whistling through his lungs.

He doesn't know where he is, and he's scared.

He can't remember anything, and something tells him that's for the best.

He can't see, not really. There's light, and he thinks maybe shapes, but they don't come into focus. 

He doesn't hear, not completely. There's mumbling, but it remains incoherent, echoing in his ears, in the dark of his mind.

_Gil._

The name comes to him, but nothing else, which doesn't feel right at all.

_John._

That one comes with fear, a shot of it straight up his spine that nearly chokes him.

_Mom._

And, just a bit, he can relax. 

His senses come back in half steps. He feels his eyes stinging, like he's had them open too long, but he can't remember ever opening them at all. He feels pressure around his wrists, and all he can think about is the shackles, John pinning him to the floor—him, helpless and unable to move. 

He can't move. He _can't move_. His limbs aren't responding. He blinks hard, and he whimpers, and he knows he's still there. He knows it for a fact. He can't remember a damn thing except _John,_ except _pain_ , and he's cold. He's so damn _cold._ His head is full of static, there’s cotton in his mouth, his throat feels swollen, and he just—please. He just wants to go home. He just wants to go _home._

There’s mumbling to the left of him, and then to the right. His head spins, but slowly his vision starts to fade in. The edges shimmer and blur, and he knows he’s dreaming, but at this point does it really matter? John is going to kill him, going to let him die down here, freezing and alone. Or worse, John isn't going to kill him. John is going to hurt him enough, _break_ him enough, he finally snaps and kills _himself_.

So if he can make up a better place to be, why shouldn’t he? 

He sees his mother. She’s holding his hand, and he wishes she was really here. He misses her so, so much. 

Someone touches his other arm, fingers stroking down it to rest over his knuckles, and he flinches, eyes darting over to see not John as he expects, but _Gil_. 

Gil. The only person he’s ever wanted as much affection as he could get from, because Gil is special. Gil means so much more to him than Malcolm could ever put into words. 

Gil could have been his father. Gil could have made him _normal._ Gil could have raised him, could have given him everything he needed. 

And Gil had tried. For ten years, he’d tried so hard. He kept trying, even when Malcolm was angry, even when their visits while Malcolm was in the FBI were few and far between. 

It was never really like any time had passed at all. They both had new stories to tell, but Gil would cup his hand around the back of Malcolm's neck, and it would feel just as grounding as ever, like he'd never left.

He loves Gil. And he’s glad that Gil is the father he’s seeing now, instead of the one he had, the one that hurt him so badly. 

Gil would never hurt him. Not ever. Gil loved him, too. Gil loved him far more than he ever deserved. 

But he wouldn't now. He wouldn't. Because Malcolm is dirty. Malcolm is bad. And Malcolm is a murderer. 

It's nice to dream, though. He's grateful for it.

He licks his lips, and realizes his mouth is no longer dry. For the first time in so long, he isn't thirsty. And that just proves it isn't real, more than the bed he notices he's in. It's comfortable. He’s still cold, so _cold,_ but it’s not the floor. It’s not the awful concrete stained with his own blood and piss and vomit. It’s clean, glowing white. Like a hospital. It smells like a hospital, too...and that's odd, isn’t it? He thinks he should be in his own bed, or somewhere he knows, but this place isn’t familiar. He’s never been here before. 

Ainsley. She’s pacing at the foot of the bed, he notices now, though it isn’t frantic. She looks rather bored, looking down at her phone. 

He loves Ainsley, too. His mother. Gil. His family. The only family he’s ever wanted, here to comfort him. 

He smiles a little, weakly, and uses what little strength he can find to curl his index finger around Gil’s. He can’t move the one his mother is holding, but it hurts so much _less._ It’s nearly numb. It feels so nice. He knows that means he’s dying, that he’s closer to it than he thought, but maybe that’s okay. If there’s no more pain...no more _John..._ then it’s far more tempting than going back. 

Gil is looking at him now, and Malcolm blinks drowsily, sees Gil’s lips moving but doesn’t hear anything. That’s okay. It doesn’t matter much to him. He feels...rather safe. He’s never felt safe in a dream before. Not before the ones he's had here.

He blinks again, and then there’s a hand under his chin, tilting his head up. He flinches, and thinks of John, and squeezes his eyes shut. Please. Not yet. Not yet. He wants to stay here, please, _just let me die._

There’s noise, suddenly. It’s not gradual. It’s silent, and then it’s _everything._ He hears voices calling out his name, he hears beeping, he hears a cry and realizes it’s his own. 

“Please—please no—” he says, shaking the hands out of his and reaching up to shield his face from it all, then trying to cover his ears. “Please...please, I can’t—”

He hasn’t looked up. He hasn’t. He even prayed, like he's supposed to. He’s being _good._ Please, he doesn’t need to be hurt again yet. He hasn't been bad. He's been good, _John, please—_

“Malcolm!” 

It cuts through the rest, and he puts his hands back over his face, opening his eyes and looking through the cracks in his fingers up at his mother. She’s blurred, but he knows it’s her, and he mumbles, _"Momma..."_

“My _love,_ ” she says back, and he feels tears in his eyes, because she looks so _real._ He wants her to be real. He just wants to go home.

Another hand on his arm, and he jerks. Someone leans too close, touches his shoulder, and he flinches again, turning away. Stop, stop—no, he doesn’t want to be touched there. Only his hands. Please, he just wants them to hold his hands. 

“Mal,” he hears Ainsley say, and he starts to cry, twisting under the sheets. Too many emotions, he's too _tired_ to feel this much.

“Momma,” he gasps. "P-please—"

“My, God, Malcolm,” his mother murmurs, and then there’s a hand on the back of his neck, and he recognizes it. The panic lessens, but he cries harder, because he misses Gil so _much._

“Kid,” Gil says, squeezing gently, and Malcolm shakes himself free of the others, only wants Gil, blinks hard and tries to focus enough to find where he is and then reaching out to him.  
  


“ _Please—_ ” 

Gil’s arms come around him, and nothing else matters. He doesn’t care that it’s fake. He doesn’t care that he’ll wake up soon, and that John will go back to breaking his bones, his body, his soul. He doesn't care about the fear, or the pain.

He just cares about _this._ He curls into Gil, buries his face into his jacket, and closes his eyes. 

Safe. So safe. 

He’s safe. 

**x**

Gil’s lost in thought, about Colette, about the missing girl, about _Malcolm,_ when he feels Malcolm’s finger twitch, curling around his own. He thinks, for a moment, that it’s just him, that it’s his imagination, but the second he looks up, his eyes meet Malcolm’s. 

And they’re looking _at_ him. Not through him, or over his shoulder. They’re looking right at him, and he almost looks like...he’s _smiling._ Just a bit. Just enough.

Gil’s next inhale is sharp, surprised, and he straightens up, squeezing Malcolm's hand. “Malcolm?”

Jessica had been nearly asleep, but she wakes at the sound of his voice. She looks confused, and then she sees her son, seemingly _aware,_ and she gasps, reaching to cup Malcolm’s chin and turn his head in her direction.

The way Malcolm flinches like he’d been expecting a blow _hurts_ , and his heart rate on the monitor spikes, and then he cries out, pulling away and starting to plead.

“ _Momma,_ ” he says, again and again, and it breaks Gil’s already cracked heart into pieces, into _dust._ He won’t listen, and the monitor keeps beeping, and Gil can’t think of anything to do but what he always has. 

He settles his hand onto the back of Malcolm’s neck and squeezes, just a little.

Malcolm goes limp, almost instantly. He melts into the touch, just like he has since he was a kid, and then he’s desperately grabbing for Gil with wide and frantic eyes.

And Gil hugs him. He hugs Malcolm, his _son,_ as tight as he dares while he's injured, and Malcolm sobs and shakes in his arms, mumbles nonsense into his shoulder. He can't understand it, but Malcolm doesn't sound afraid anymore. He sounds _relieved._ He sounds _grateful_. He sounds, at some point, like he's saying _thank you._

Gil has never felt relief like this. Not even when he’d been told Malcolm was alive. Because until now, it hasn’t even been _Malcolm,_ but this... _this..._ this is him. This is Malcolm. Malcolm is alive, and he’s awake, and he’s going to be okay. That’s what this means, isn’t it? It has to be. It absolutely has to be.

"Oh, God."

He looks at Jessica, and both her and Ainsley are staring at them. He thinks for a moment he’s done something wrong, that maybe he should have pushed Malcolm’s affection towards the two of them instead, but...they’re not looking at _them,_ they’re looking at _Malcolm_. "What—"

“His back—" Jessica chokes, covering her mouth with both hands.

Gil presses Malcolm closer to him, and dares to look down. 

He wishes he hadn't.

Only tied loosely behind his neck, the gown hangs open. Some of the damage is hidden under gauze and bandages, but there's more than enough to see. There’s _too much_ to see. 

_Tortured. Stabbed. Whipped down to the muscle. Brutalized._

And none of it, no words in any language, could have prepared him for just _how bad_ it looks.

John had _flayed_ him. It makes Gil nauseous. He can't imagine just how drugged Malcolm is in order to be able to lay on it, and he can't imagine how much it had hurt before. Doesn't want to. _Can't_.

But they’d said it was on his chest, too...and his side had been stabbed. There's no possible way for him to even be comfortable. And if his chest is anywhere near as bad as this... _worse_ , even...the pain alone, let alone the _scarring_ that’s going to result...

“ _Malcolm…_ ” he breathes out, and there are tears down his cheeks before he can do anything to stop them. He doesn’t even know if he _could_ have stopped them. He's sickened. He's horrified. His throat burns, and his chest aches, and God, _Malcolm..._

Ainsley grabs for the blanket, lays it over Malcolm's shoulders. Malcolm startles and whimpers like it's a threat, trying to get closer to Gil. Gil grasps the blanket, make sure it covers him, and rocks Malcolm gently, hand on his neck again, murmuring to him that it's okay now, that he's safe. Finally safe.

"We missed you. You know that? Every second. Oh, Malcolm, we tried so hard. Ssh, kid. Ssh. I know." 

Eventually, Malcolm manages to speak, though Gil's not sure it makes any more sense than the rest. "I miss you. I miss you. Please, I...I can't...not anymore. Okay? I'm...sorry. I love you. I c-can't...I can't."

Gil looks up, at Jessica, and then presses a kiss to Malcolm’s head. “What’s that? You can't what, kid? Huh? What’s wrong?”

“J-John,” Malcolm replies, and Gil tenses. “I m-miss you...so much...an' I tried...o-okay? I tried. I can't. Sorry. J-just...just can’t.”

“Malcolm…” He squeezes his hand lightly. “Hey. You’re in the hospital. Watkins isn’t here. It’s just me, your mom, your sister. Dani and JT, too. We’re all here for you. You’re safe, kid. Don’t you remember?”

“Okay,” Malcolm says, nuzzling closer. “Please don’t go. Please. Hurts. Hurts so _much._ " 

"Oh, kid...ssh, come here. What hurts? Are you in pain?" 

Malcolm sniffles. "Just hurts. _Hurts_. He hurt me. I don't wanna...he's gonna—he's gonna—n-no, Gil, I _can't_ —"

He starts to cry again, grabbing at Gil's jacket. His mouth opens, and closes, and then he sputters out, "I can't, I _can't._ I just _can't!"_

Gil holds him steady, tries to keep him where he is as he squirms. "Malcolm! He's not here. He's not. I am. I'm here for you, okay? We're all here. Your mom. Ainsley."

"Momma…"

"I'm here, my love," Jessica says, too afraid to touch him, to make it worse.

"I'm here," Ainsley says, holding herself tightly as she shivers.

"Not here," Malcolm replies, so quietly, clearly speaking more to himself than any of them. "Miss you. Gil? Gil...I miss you. I'm s-sorry."

"Oh, kid. There's nothing to be sorry for. How can I prove I'm real?" 

Malcolm snickers. It sounds painful, and there are tears still falling down his cheeks.

"Can't," he says. "'m dyin'."

Gil exhales, so shakily, into Malcolm's hair. Malcolm thinks he's _dying?_ He thinks he's still there...still chained in the cellar Gil couldn't rescue him from. 

"You're not dying. Oh, Malcolm, you're not. We wouldn't let you die, kid. You gotta know that by now. You're healing. You're gonna be just fine."

Malcolm hums, tucking his head under Gil's chin. "So tired…"

"You can sleep," Gil says. "I won't leave. I'll be right here when you wake up."

"No, you won't," Malcolm mumbles. "St...stop lyin'. Please. It hurts. _Please._ "

Gil doesn't know what he can say to make it better, to make Malcolm _believe_ them. 

So instead he's silent. He just holds Malcolm, pets his hair, murmurs to him, and watches his heart rate on the monitor slow again as he falls asleep.

For the longest time, it’s quiet. Gil doesn’t dare move, doesn’t _want_ to. Malcolm is shivering, just enough to feel, and he meets eyes with Ainsley, points with one finger to the second blanket at the end of the bed. Without a word she grabs it, lays it over Malcolm, and Gil carefully moves his arm to keep it in place. 

“He doesn’t think we’re real,” Jessica finally says, and Ainsley sits down on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. "He...he called me _Momma_. He hasn't called me that since he was ten. God. _God…_ I thought...I thought...why doesn’t he…?”

“He’s tired,” Gil murmurs. He doesn't _know_ if that's why. He doesn't know _anything._ But he has to convince himself that this will change, that it's just temporary, because he doesn't think he'll be able to deal with it otherwise. “He’ll remember.”

Jessica’s gaze slides up Malcolm to meet Gil's, and he has to look away. She looks as upset as she does sad, and he knows exactly why. Malcolm should have been seeking comfort from her, from his mother, his family, instead of him.

“He wouldn’t even let me _touch_ him.”

“I’m sorry,” Gil says, but he feels like it’s impossible to make her feel better when Malcolm is still in his arms. He slowly, slowly starts to lower Malcolm back down to the bed, and Jessica holds her hands out.

“Don’t.” She stands up, wiping her nose and clearing her throat. “It’s fine. He’s always loved you more.”

Gil nearly flinches, clenching his teeth. “ _Jessica…_ ”

“I need to talk to a doctor. Find someone who can tell me when I can get him out of here. I want to take him home, or...to a hospital in New York. I don’t like it here.”

“Jessica, please.”

She shakes her hand in his direction. “I just need some air.” 

“I’m sor—” He cuts off with a heavy sigh as it doesn’t stop her, as she leaves the room with a huff, and then he looks at Ainsley. “I didn’t _know_ he would—”

“It’s okay,” she says. “She, um…” 

She sighs, glancing around him to the door, and lowers her voice as if Jessica might hear.

“When Malcolm wanted to spend the night at your house, or the weekends...she’d always try to get him to stay. She’d fix dinner, or tell him we’d go wherever he wanted. That kind of thing. She took it personal every time he said no. I did too, but only back then. Because I know it's not us. It's...you."

"Me?" Gil asks, and she nods.

"You're the father he never had,” she says. “You’re what he needed. What he _needs,_ obviously."

Gil looks down at Malcolm, and he _hates_ how good it feels to know he’s wanted, that he’s always been wanted. He’d never been sure he was making a difference at all, because for all the love he showed Malcolm, Malcolm had still suffered. Malcolm had still tried to kill himself. Malcolm had still nearly _bled out_ in his arms. And later, Malcolm had still yelled at him, told Gil that he never meant anything to him at all, that Gil wasn’t his father and never would be. He’d ignore Gil for weeks, and then come back to him crying and apologizing, only for it to happen again.

But Gil had never blamed him, not ever. It wasn’t Malcolm’s fault. Gil had blamed Martin. He’d blamed _himself_. But never Malcolm. He could never be _mad_ at Malcolm.

Malcolm is his son, and he loves Malcolm more than Malcolm will ever understand, more than _anyone_ will ever understand. 

Except Jackie. She knew.

She'd wanted kids of her own, but she hadn't been able to have them. And Gil hadn't loved her any less for it, but she'd loved _herself_ less. And then Malcolm had come into their life, needing the love she was always ready to give...

Gil had never seen her so happy. 

Gil had never _been_ so happy.

They'd gone out to parks, to the theater, to anywhere Malcolm wanted, anywhere that made him feel better, that made him smile. They'd take him to science museums, the aquarium. When he was older Gil took him on stakeouts, introduced him to colleagues as the smartest boy he'd ever met, a genius, a future officer, so bright and wonderful, an honor to know.

But how he _wanted_ to introduce him was different. It went something like, ' _This is my son, and I'm so proud of him, of what he's becoming.'_

He still wants that. He wishes Malcolm could have been his son. But even without a connection by blood, he still wants to give Malcolm the world, just as Jackie would have. He hopes Malcolm knows that. He'll be sure to make sure of it, after this. He'll never let Malcolm forget how proud Gil is again.

He twists the ring on his finger with his thumb, and closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

Malcolm’s hair smells like blood, and it makes him choke on tears again.

“You’ve always made him feel better,” Ainsley goes on. “So...do that. Make him feel better. _Please._ I don’t...I don’t care how he gets there. I just...want him back. Okay?”

Gil nods. He carefully scoots the chair closer, adjusts his position a bit, but this isn’t about _him_ being comfortable. It’s just about Malcolm now. And he’s more than willing to suffer a little so Malcolm doesn’t. He’ll do whatever it takes to prevent Malcolm from ever suffering again. 

Malcolm whimpers in his sleep, tilting his head, and Gil holds him closer. Ainsley rests her hand on Malcolm’s, taking Jessica's seat.

And again, they wait.

Gil hates that it seems to be all they can do.

**x**

"You can't."

Colette Swanson laughs, and gives Gil the best smile she can fake. She didn’t like the drive here, she _really_ didn’t like finding the police were no closer to tracking the girl down, and she _really, really_ doesn’t like the way the NYPD keeps getting in her way. Especially Gil. Especially the two detectives lurking behind her. They’d tried to _calm_ her, to get her to reconsider seeing Bright, all the way up here, and it’s all _beyond_ getting on her nerves. 

"I assure you I can do whatever I need to, and you know that. Let me _in."_

Gil's lips twitch, almost curl into a snarl. He stands in between her and the door to Bright's room, like he’s Bright’s personal guard, and it's ridiculous. They shouldn't be protecting him. He doesn't need protecting. He might just need to be in _prison,_ but he doesn't need this.

“He doesn’t know where he is,” Gil says. “He thinks he’s still there.”

Oh, she’s sure he does. Back with the man he was so likely working with. Of course. Where else would he be? But that’s not her focus right now. She needs to find the girl. That’s her only priority.

If she happens to find what she needs to put Malcolm _Whitly_ away at the same time, then hell. Who is she to complain?

“Maybe that can help him tell us where she is,” she says, and when Gil still looks about to protest, she, very simply, adds, “Let me in, or I'll have your job."

Gil seethes, but steps aside to allow her passage.

"Thank you,” she says, and rolls her eyes at just how closely Gil and the other two follow her. Do they really think she’s going to hurt the stupid man? That time has long passed.

Bright is sitting up, looking out the window, perfectly still. Jessica is sitting beside him, glaring at her just as intensely as Gil, but Colette pays her no mind. Bright doesn’t seem to hear her enter, but the second she’s close enough his head jerks towards her, and he’s shrinking back against the mattress, fumbling with the blanket to pull it up to his neck. 

She stops dead. She looks him over, takes in the splints, the bruising, the loss of weight, the eye he can only half open. 

The fear.

She's never seen him look so _terrified_. He looks...

Like a prisoner, not an accomplice. Like the victims she's been apart of rescuing who have been kept captive for months, sometimes years.

He'd been with Watkins for twenty days. How could he possibly look like this?

Perhaps they’d had a fight. They don’t know where Watkins is now. Maybe he’d beaten Bright and run. She doesn’t know the story. _Bright_ is going to have to tell her, and she’ll be damned if he doesn’t.

She shakes herself, takes a breath, and says, “Alright, Bright. We’re going to need your help."

Bright looks to his mother, and then at Gil beside Colette. “I, um...u-uh…” He squints, blinks hard, and then reaches up to rub the blanket against his eye. “Um…”

She frowns. “Do you know where you are?” 

Bright doesn’t respond, oddly still again, staring down at his lap. Jessica strokes his fingers, and he shivers violently and then turns his head to her, gaze fixed at her shoulders.

“Momma,” he says, like he hadn’t realized she was there, and she smiles at him.

“Hi, my love. Do you remember where you are?”

Bright’s head lolls against his chest, and then he shakes it. He looks drugged out of his _mind_ , but he’s still conscious. He can still give them answers.

“You’re in the hospital, Bright,” Colette says, and Bright reacts as if he hadn’t known _she_ was there either, gasping and sitting upright, pressing himself back again.

“I—”

“The girl,” she interrupts, because she doesn’t have time. The _girl_ doesn’t have time. “I need to know about the girl.”

Bright’s face somehow grows paler, and his hand starts to tremble. It’s all she needs to see. 

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and whispers, “D...don’t.”

She tilts her ear towards him. “Don’t what?”

Bright breathes in sharply, and his exhale is a groan. He kicks his legs out and rubs at his face again, and then mumbles, “Please...J-John, _don’t.”_

“Love,” Jessica tries, and Malcolm turns away from her, his eyes still closed, and shakes his head.

“Kid,” Gil says, drawing closer, offering his hand. “Hey. He’s not here. It’s just us. You’re safe.”

“Stop,” Bright tells him, slapping his hand away. “ _Stop._ Please, I—I can’t. John, I _can’t!”_

“John Watkins isn’t _here,_ Bright,” Colette says. She raises her voice just a little, thinking maybe it'll better get through to him, or at least be heard over his muttering. “We don’t know where he is. You were brought in here by Martin Whitly, and—”

“No.” 

Colette huffs. “No? What do you mean _no?_ ”

“No,” Bright repeats, and then moans softly. “No, no, no. Won’t do it. Can’t...p-please, please…”

“You need to stop,” JT tells her. “You need to leave him alone.”

Colette whirls to face him and hisses, “I need to know where the girl is.”

JT has his arms crossed over his chest, and she's rarely seen someone with so much silent fury in his eyes with none of it shown on his face. “He doesn’t know where _he_ is. _Stop._ ”

Colette doesn’t. She gives a sharp gesture with her hand, and turns her attention back to Bright. "The _girl,_ Bright. I just need to know where she is. You’re not in trouble, I just need your help. Okay?”

Bright looks up at her with wide eyes, and then behind her. He reaches his hand out, grasping weakly at the air, and Detective Powell steps forward into her vision, coming to take his hand. 

“Hey,” Powell murmurs, so softly. “Hey, Bright. How’re you doing?”

“Please…” he says. “Miss you. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gil shakes his head, putting his hands out and getting between Colette and the bed. "He can't do this. _You_ can't. Not now.”

“I just need to know where the cabin is. He can draw me a map, for all I care. I just need to know where she is."

“He doesn’t _know!”_

"J-J-John, _please—_ " Bright whispers, nearly pulling Dani off-balance from how quickly he brings his hands back to wrap protectively around himself, leaning forward and moaning. "Please—no, no—I—sor—sorry—"

"Enough!" Jessica exclaims, and Bright covers his ears again. "You're scaring him! That's _enough!"_

" _Scaring_ him! Think about how scared that girl must be! Miller, Bright. Her name is Jasmine Miller. She's twenty-two years old, and she's _dying._ We can’t track the signal in this storm. You're the only person who can save her. Snap out of it and _think!_ ”

“Gil—” Bright says, and Gil is immediately by his side, a hand on the back of his neck, while Tarmel takes his place in front of Colette and scowls at her.

"Does he look like he's faking?” 

Colette frowns. She takes in how hard Bright is trembling, how wild his eyes are as he whispers under his breath and shakes his head, clutching at it. She takes in Tarmel, and Powell, at Jessica and Gil and Ainsley, the way they’ve all crowded around the bed to protect him from her, as if she was really the villain here instead of _Watkins,_ and possibly _Bright._

"No," she says at last. "He doesn't. I believe him. And that means that girl is going to _die."_

"No!” Bright cries, and then when Gil tries to hug him, tries to wrap an arm around his back, he _screams,_ writhes and flails his arms, smacking the hard plastic splint straight into Gil's nose. He starts clawing at the gown, his bandages, at something he can feel that isn't there, and shouts, "Get off! No! Stop! _Help me!_ " 

Colette reels back as if shoved. Dani jumps, nearly tripping in her haste to give him space, and Ainsley grabs onto her, catches both her and Jessica and pulls them away.

“Hey! Someone get in here!” Tarmel calls out to the hall, and as two nurses push past the agent at the door with a cart, Gil holds his hands out towards them.

"Don't restrain him!" he says, blood steadily trickling from one of his nostrils, over his upper lip. "He's scared, don't tie him down!" 

Bright _clearly_ misunderstands, doesn't hear the _don't_. He heaves for air, nearly rips the IV straight out of himself as he tries to get up, to escape, to save himself from whatever he thinks is about to happen. “No! No, no, no! Stop! _Stop!_ ”

“Malcolm, _Malcolm—_ ” Gil has no choice but to grab him, to hold him steady as one of the nurses injects something into the line, and Bright wails again and struggles for a moment before he starts to quiet. He blinks hard, and then fairly quickly goes limp in Gil’s arms, head falling back on Gil’s shoulder.

"It's okay, kid,” he murmurs, lowering him back to the bed. “You hear me? Huh? You're safe! Ssh, ssh. You're still safe."

"I don't—wanna—" Bright gasps, grabbing onto Gil's jacket, and Gil pets Bright's hair out of his face, cups his cheek. 

"Look at me. Focus on me, okay? Hey. Bright?" 

Bright looks up to his shoulders, and that's good enough. Just enough he knows Bright is paying attention, hearing him. 

"Okay. Hey. Breathe in with me, okay?"

Bright chokes out some noise in his throat, and then deeply inhales as Gil does.

"That's it, kid. That's it. Breathe out. Just relax."

Bright obeys again. He exhales, and his eyelids flutter. 

"G—il," he manages, and Gil nods, smiling.

"That's right. I'm still here. It's okay. Do it again. Breathe in." 

“Scared—”

“I know. I know. But you don’t have to be. Okay? Ssh. Just breathe in. Hey, you still with me? Huh? Just breathe.”

Bright does. He takes another two breaths with Gil before his eyes finally slide closed. His hand loses grip and falls back to lay on his stomach, and new tears stop coming, the old drying in long tracks down his face.

Gil swallows hard, resting his forehead for just a second on Bright’s shoulder.

And Colette only stares, her heart pounding. 

"Hell," she finally says. " _Fuck,_ I didn’t—”

Jessica is on her feet before she can finish, getting right up in her face with a kind of anger Colette wouldn’t have expected from her. It reminds her that she’s The Surgeon’s wife, capable of just as much as Bright, maybe more. It makes her flinch, just a bit, but she doesn’t back up. She's dealt with worse, though maybe not scarier.

With clenched fists, gritted teeth, Jessica says, _“Get. Out.”_

Colette doesn’t argue. There’s no reason for her to stay anymore, and it’s not an argument she would win in the end, anyway.

She briefly meets eyes with all of them, and then exits the room.

“What now?” her partner asks, quickly following behind her, and Colette scoffs. She’s yet to have a partner anywhere near as awful as Bright, as stubborn and incompetent. The rest of them follow her, like Bright should have. The rest of them know she’s in charge, like Bright should have.

"We better hope this storm clears up or they get her to shoot a flare,” she says, and then pauses. “Actually...go talk to Martin Whitly. I doubt we’ll get a damn thing out of him. He wouldn’t even tell us where his own kid was. But we're covering all the bases here. If she dies, I want it on Bright's conscience, not mine."

Her partner agrees, goes off faster than any of the rest to obey her. And she admires him for that. Bright could never have done the same.

She pictures the terror she’d seen on his face, suddenly, and then quickly jerks her head to the side to clear the image away. 

He’s not a child. He’s not helpless. He’d been beaten, but what else? She doubts much. She doesn’t think he’s faking the confusion, but that doesn't mean he's innocent. And she’ll prove it, eventually. But right now, he’s not her concern. Jasmine Miller is.

“Are you having a problem finding the way out?”

Colette forces a smile, turning to look at Tarmel as he approaches, Gil following behind him, dabbing at his nose with a wad of paper towel.

“No,” she says. “I’m just fine. Thank you. Where are you off to, hmm?"

“Nowhere,” Gil says, sliding right past her towards the elevators. Tarmel does so _much_ slower, never once breaking his glare. It looks like a threat, and that pisses her off, too. 

They don’t see Bright for what he is. He’s charmed his way into all of their hearts. That’s okay. They’ll see it soon. She’ll make sure of it.

“Catch the next one,” Tarmel says when she finally starts forward, jamming his finger into the button to close the doors.

_Men._ All the goddamn same.

She could stop them from closing, but she doesn’t. She lets them go. 

They’ll feel bad when she turns out to be right. And she _knows_ she’s right. It’s all just a matter of time before they do, too.

And oh, she can't _wait_ for the look on their faces, all of them, _especially Bright's,_ when that moment comes.


	21. Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me on December 2nd: "This fic will be like...probably 25k words at most."
> 
> Me now, at 100k+ words, slamming out yet another 11k long chapter: 乁| ･ 〰 ･ |ㄏ
> 
> THANK YOU to my friend @ [bloodysideblog](https://bloodysideblog.tumblr.com/) for help coming up with some of the Extra Good Scenes this chapter, and figuring out the probability of where in the forest the cabin is. Did I actually need exacts? No. Did we spend an hour talking about it anyway because I'm insane? Yes. Anyway, very smart friend ^_^
> 
> TW (slight) for Malcolm still having a mental breakdown through the whole thing and mentions of what John did in 16. God, will I ever give this kid a break? (No. I just got my bad things happen bingo card and OOF rip to Mal.)

He's cold.

Sweating, somehow, but still so, so cold. The cellar is so _cold._ John's hands are so—

_Cold._

He doesn’t remember what it’s like to be warm. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel warm again. 

There’s only this, and his chains, and his blanket, and the ghosts, and John, forever. It's a reality he's already more used to than he should be.

His head rolls to the side, and he cracks his eyes open to see his mother. She isn’t looking at him, but her expression is upset, and he knows it's because of him. He knows it's because John is right, and he's a sinner, a murderer. He _knows_ that now, that they'll never want to see him again. He'd thought at least here, in his head, they might still...

_‘Oh, they never loved you...but they won’t even like you now.’_

He’s a _fool,_ isn’t he? 

They loved what they thought he was, not what he’s always been, what even _he_ hadn’t known he's always been.

Just the same as...

"Momma," he manages, tearful. It's all that'll come out. He feels so small, ten years old again, and he isn’t sure he’s not. He feels just as helpless, just as fearful. “M...Momma?"

His mother smiles at him, but it doesn't look very happy. Once again, he's not surprised. He's made everyone in his life unhappy, hasn’t he? Tore his very own family apart at the seams with a single phone call. They'll be better off without him, and he'll be better off here. It's nothing more than what he deserves. 

She takes his hand and it _hurts,_ because he knows she’d never want to touch him in real life, not ever again. His hands are covered in blood. His hands have _killed._

He wants to tell her, even here. 

“Momma...I…” His tongue is too thick in his mouth, making his words come out half-formed and slurred. “I’m…"

“Ssh, my love,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

She kisses his forehead, and there are tears in his eyes again. 

He doesn’t deserve a dream so gentle, so sweet, but he wants it _desperately._ He wants it to stay. He wants _them_ to stay. He wants…

He glances around, but Gil isn't there. And though he'd known that when Gil promised to be there when he woke up it was a lie, because none of this is _real,_ it still makes the ache in his chest worse.

He shudders, trying to curl onto his side, but he can’t seem to make his limbs obey him. He’s so damn _cold…_

Ainsley comes into his view, smiling at him, rounding to his other side to take that hand, the same way she would in their youth, comforting him after a nightmare or when she caught him crying.

He just wants to go _home..._ he wants Sunshine...he wants his _bed,_ warm and soft and not _here._

“You’re okay, Mal,” she says, and she sounds so _certain,_ sounds like she knows for _sure_ that he isn’t going to be beaten to tears and—and _worse_ the moment John returns. He whimpers, shaking his head in protest, and she asks, “What’s wrong?”

He grunts, frustrated at the way he can’t speak, the way he just won’t snap out of this all. “Col…c-c…’m s-so col...”

“Cold,” his mother says, and Ainsley steps away, comes back with another blanket to lay over him. 

It doesn’t help. He hadn’t thought it would. The blankets aren't _real._ Nothing is real. He wants to stay here, but it’s not what he deserves. He deserves the pain John gives him. He deserves everything John does to him. Everything John _will_ do to him.

_Sinner._

_Murderer_.

_Filthy._

_Little._

_Whore._

Sharp, fiery pain shoots through his hand, through his back, and he gasps, arching up. Ainsley squeezes his hand a little tighter, and something in his mother’s grasp clicks, and then warmth drifts up his arm, slowly spreading into the rest of him. Things matter so much less, suddenly, and nothing hurts at all. 

“You’re okay, Mal,” Ainsley tells him. He catches his breath, and she kisses his cheek, and he could cry.

Instead, he closes his eyes and sleeps.

**x**

"Hey, kid."

Slowly, Malcolm pulls his gaze away from the window. He hadn't even known his eyes were open. They’re dry, like he hasn’t been blinking, and he does so rapidly until they stop stinging, until he can fairly clearly see Gil standing beside him.

_Gil._ God, he misses Gil.

He swallows hard. His throat still hurts. And when he looks around, he doesn't understand why he's still _here,_ in this strange room, in his head. _Surely_ John should be back by now. 

Or...maybe John did come back, and Malcolm's brain has sent him here again to protect him, to _save_ him. Maybe that's okay. He doesn’t want to be there, anyways. Not for that. Not for any of it. He only wants...

"Gil…" he says, so quietly. It makes sense that the only man he's ever felt truly and completely safe around for twenty years would be the one person sees now, during the time safety is what he needs most.

He notices only then that Gil is holding something behind his back, and suddenly Malcolm feels doubtful, distrustful. He squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can, trying to make sure he’s not seeing Gil when it’s really John, excited to use something new to hurt and beat him with.

He blinks, and then again, but it’s still Gil. And Gil wouldn't hurt him, not ever.

But this isn't _really_ Gil, is it? He still has to be careful. 

And then Gil asks, "How are you feeling?" and Malcolm relaxes, just a little, because that’s not a question John would ever ask him, not so genuinely, so wholeheartedly. He’s hallucinating. He has to be. That’s...relieving, he thinks.

How is he _feeling?_ He holds his hand against his chest and frowns. It aches, deep in him, but he doesn't know why. He doesn't know anything, really; his head is too cloudy to think of much.

"Okay,” he murmurs, shakily, and then coughs, running a finger up the front of his neck. 

"Does it hurt when you talk?" Gil asks, and Malcolm nods. 

"You were intubated. Just...just for a little while. So that's normal. And…" He sounds uncomfortable, clears his throat before continuing. "You have a lot of bruising there. Um...well...everywhere." 

"Oh," Malcolm says. "What's…?"

He points, and Gil pulls one hand out, reaches it towards him.

Malcolm hadn't been expecting him to move, not so _quickly,_ and he flinches, lowering his head. He thinks he hears chains rattle, for just a second, but he can't be sure. He hasn't seen them in a while. He hasn't seen The Girl in a while, either, and he isn't sure if that's good or bad.

“K- _kid—"_ Gil chokes out, sounding so utterly _heartbroken_ , and Malcolm glances up, squints at what’s in Gil’s hand.

It’s…

It’s a candy. 

It’s a small, bright green, hard candy with clear wrapping, and it’s somehow the most familiar sight Malcolm’s ever been faced with.

He remembers Gil on one knee before him in the foyer of their home, the home Malcolm would never feel safe in again after that night, telling him it was going to be okay, that _he_ was going to be okay. He remembers the candy transferring from Gil’s hand to his own like a promise, and he remembers keeping it to remind him until Gil gave him another one, and another, and another.

After each therapy session, every time Gil had picked him up from school, every stakeout they completed together. Every time he was sad, or happy, or Gil just thought he’d like it, because he was the kindest—the _truly_ kindest—man Malcolm had ever known. It had always made him smile, even when that hurt more than anything.

It makes him smile now, too.

It makes him smile, and it makes him cry.

“Oh—" Gil exhales harshly. "Wait, Bright—”

He sits down in the chair beside the bed and sets an entire bowl _full_ of them beside Malcolm's leg. “Please, this—these are for you! I got—I didn’t—why are you crying? Kid…”

“Th-thank you—” Malcolm manages, staring down at it. He runs his finger over the candies, knocks a few of them off to the blanket, and doesn’t like how real this feels. He wants to go home. He wants Gil. He doesn't deserve, but he _wants._

He looks up, hardly able to even see him through the tears. “I m-miss you," he whimpers. "I'm sorry. I'm s- _sorry._ I miss you s-so _much_ —"

“Kid, my God, I’m _here._ ” Gil takes Malcolm’s hand, flips it, and places the candy on his palm, closing their fingers around it. The wrapper crinkles, pokes his skin, and Gil’s skin is warm and familiar against his own—it all feels so _real._

But it can’t be.

“I’m real,” Gil insists. “I’m here. _You’re_ here!”

Malcolm shakes his head. Why is his own subconscious trying so hard to convince him? 

Unless…

But it _can’t_ be.

“Yes, you are. Look, look here.” Gil turns Malcolm's hand over again, tapping his knuckle against the plastic around his wrist. “Look at them. You’re free.”

Malcolm stares down, frowning. He hadn’t really noticed _what_ the pressure around his wrists was until now. He’d just thought they were still the shackles, or whatever the hallucinated equivalent of it would be. But these are splints. Why would he imagine that?

He holds up his other hand, much slower. It’s heavy, tingling, wrapped in gauze and a thicker plastic than the first, and he doesn’t _understand._

“I don’t...feel it,” he says finally, confused. 

“Feel what, Bright?”

Malcolm lets it drop back down to the mattress. “Hand. D-doesn’t...hurt.”

“Well...that's good, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it means. It’s hurt so goddamn _bad, everything_ has, this whole time, and now…

“Gil…”

Gil leans to the side to get in Malcolm’s line of sight again, giving him a smile, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut. 

He can’t be real. Malcolm’s been fooled before, and he woke up with John sitting on his hips, cutting into him and—

He touches his chest again and pulls at the gown with a finger, looks down at the bandages and electrode sensors covering his skin, the colorful bruises and lashes. He touches his throat, right where John’s hands had come around it so many times, and presses down, gasping at the pain.

His hand starts to shake, and Gil’s grips at the blanket.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

They’re never the same. In his dreams, his injuries are _never_ the same. He’s dreamed so much, and it’s never consistent, not like this. They change, disappear, or worsen. They don’t get _better._ They don’t get _bandaged._ Bruises don’t start to _fade._

He looks at Gil, eyes wide and frightened, and then squeezes the candy.

No. It can’t be real. It _isn’t_. He won’t let himself believe and hope and _be hurt_ again.

What can he remember? How can he prove to himself that he's still there, once and for all?

There's only the cellar. In his mind, there's nothing but dimly lit cold concrete. There's nothing but John. He doesn’t remember leaving, so he can’t have left. He’s still there. It makes no sense.

And yet, his hand is broken, and he doesn’t know how it came to be like that. There’s missing time, just like there's always been. He’s somewhere he doesn’t recognize, John still hasn’t beaten him into consciousness and then back out of it, and Gil is still looking at him with just as much affection as he always has, maybe _more_ , in the two seconds he dares to make eye-contact before new instincts force his gaze to lower again. 

“Are you…?” Malcolm reaches out, touches Gil’s face, his hair, and then grasps his jacket. “ _Gil?”_

“I’m here,” Gil says, holding his hand over Malcolm’s. “I’m _real._ ”

Malcolm struggles for a moment. He looks around the room, and down at himself, the bowl of candy, and then at Gil again.

_Gil._

“You’re real?" he finally whispers. “You’re—"

He cuts off, and then he’s choking on sobs as they wrench their way out of his raw throat, lurching forward to grab onto Gil. 

“No,” he gasps, “you—you’re _real?_ ” 

He feels the candy in his hand, feels Gil holding him as tight as he can. He feels the pull of an IV in his arm as he moves it, and something else in his side. He feels stitches tugging in his chest, his hand. He feels the hardness of the plastic around his hands, the immobility of one thumb, the heave of Gil’s chest against his own and the tears leaking down into his hair as he tucks his head under Gil’s chin.

Too real. All too real. 

“I’m real,” Gil says. “You’re safe now.”

“Safe—” he echoes. Can he _really be—_ “S-safe?”

Gil buries his face in Malcolm's hair and lets out a breathless laugh. “ _Yeah._ You’re _safe,_ kid. I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again, not ever. I promise, Malcolm. You can believe me. _Please_ believe me.”

“Okay,” Malcolm says at last, and he does.

It scares him more than anything ever has, but he _does_.

**x**

Gil murmurs whatever soothing words he can think of to Malcolm, rocking the kid as he cries in Gil's arms until he’s out of tears and exhausted and quiet, until even his hand has stopped shaking. Even then he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, and so Gil doesn’t either. He's more than prepared to stay here as long as Malcolm needs him to.

Malcolm _believes_ him. Finally. _Finally._

When he'd had the idea, when he'd had JT drive him to three different nearby stores until he found _just_ the right candy, he hadn't known it would do this, that it would bring him _back_. He'd just wanted to give Malcolm something, to maybe, _maybe_ make him smile. 

And he had. He'd _smiled,_ and then he'd _believed._ Gil couldn't possibly have imagined a better outcome, not in his wildest dreams.

He thinks Malcolm has fallen asleep, when after the longest time Malcolm finally, hoarsely says, “Where am I?”

“Hospital,” Gil replies. “You’re...in New Jersey.”

“Oh,” Malcolm says. “That’s not New York.”

Gil winces. The poor thing sounds so _out_ of it, but...likely that’s for the best. Malcolm should stay unaware of the details until he's home and able to properly handle them...or maybe, hopefully, never remember them at all. 

“No, it's not," he says. "But we’re gonna get you out of here as soon as we can, okay?”

Malcolm nods, just slightly, only enough Gil can feel it, and then shifts a little and sniffles. “What...wh-what...um...h-happened?”

God, Malcolm is so _fragile..._ he feels like he could break apart at any second in Gil's arms, sounds like he’s seconds away from tears again. Gil doesn't want to tell him anything. He just wants Malcolm to _rest_ and _forget._ “What do you remember?”

What feels like every muscle in Malcolm’s body suddenly tenses, and Gil regrets even saying that, rubbing Malcolm’s arm. “It’s okay, never mind. I'm sorry. You should sleep, you—”

“St-sto- _stop,_ ” Malcolm says, and Gil freezes, opens his arms a bit in an offer to allow Malcolm to leave if he wants to. Malcolm seems to consider it, and then he shivers and leans into him again, clutches onto Gil’s coat.

“What _happened?_ ” he asks again. “I can’t—I can’t remember. I remember—oh, God.”

He whimpers, and Gil reaches out to pull one of the blankets around him again. “Hey, kid...hey, just relax, it’s okay—”

Malcolm gasps. He suddenly yanks back, eyes settling on something over Gil’s shoulder, and he looks so genuinely _terrified_ that Gil jerks his head around to look, but there’s no one there.

Malcolm’s hand is shaking again when Gil looks back. The heart monitor starts to beep as his pulse increases, and he doesn’t seem to be breathing at _all._

“Bright? Hey—” He takes Malcolm’s hand, and Malcolm sucks in air, blinking hard and focusing his gaze at Gil’s chest again. It’s... _unnerving,_ the way Malcolm won’t look at them, but Gil thinks maybe it’s because of the drugs. His vision can’t be clear, might even be doubled. He might not know _where_ to look.

“Is she—” Malcolm cuts off, swallows, and starts again. “Is she alive?”

“Who?"

“The girl. I-I—I remember Colette—a little—is she…?"

He’d hoped Malcolm wouldn’t remember her visit...the last thing he needs is her creating more trauma. But he nods, and Malcolm desperately gulps in another breath. 

“They’re still trying to find her," Gil says. "The snow’s making it hard to narrow the search area down. She wanted to know—"

“The ca—cabin,” Malcolm says. He looks down at his arm for a moment, thoughtfully, and then sticks his hand down his shirt and yanks off one of the sensors. 

“Whoa!” Gil holds his hands out, half on his feet now. “Hold on—don’t do that, you can’t—”

“Gotta.” Malcolm doesn’t even sound like he knows _what_ he’s ‘ _gotta_ ’ do, but he flicks the sticker off his fingertip and grabs for another. The monitor goes off with an alarm far louder than the last, and it makes Malcolm flinch and hunch over.

“Malcolm, _please._ Stop. You can’t get up.”

“The _cabin_ ,” Malcolm says, insistently, like Gil is supposed to understand. “I have to—”

Gil forces out a laugh, glancing at the nurse that comes in. “Wait—do you—do you think you’re going out there? Have you _lost it?_ ”

Malcolm scowls at him and says, “I have to!”

“What’s going on, Mr. Bright?” the nurse asks, coming to his side, and Malcolm covers his ears, shaking his head. 

“Too loud. Please!”

She clicks the monitor, and the alarm stops. Malcolm exhales, lowering his hands, and then raises the one connected to the IV towards her.

“I need to go,” he says.

She purses her lips, frowning, and looks at Gil for answers he just doesn't have. “Um...where?” 

“Find her,” Malcolm says. “I have to.”

“Malcolm…” Gil pulls himself closer, tries to take Malcolm’s hand again but isn’t at all surprised when he jerks it away. “Do you remember where it is?”  
  


“I remember.” Malcolm shakes his arm. “Please, t-take it out. I don’t need it. Don’t wanna sleep anymore, please.”

“Mr. Bright…" the nurse says, slowly, "you’re on a cocktail of sedatives right now...I’m not sure how you’re functioning at all. Without them, you'll be in _severe_ pain. Do you understand?”

“Have to find her,” he says, and then looks at Gil. “Please. Gil, _please._ Let me help.”

“How can you help? Tell me how. You can help from here. Tell us where it is.” 

“Can’t. Have to find it.”

Gil is fucking _floored_ that this idiot child of his really thinks for a goddamn _second_ that he’s going to let him do this. Go outside? In the snow? When he shouldn’t even be _conscious?_ Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Malcolm never ceases to amaze him in the worst ways.

“Malcolm,” he says, trying to pretend like he’s calm, “I’m not taking you out there, and that’s the end of it."

Unfortunately, Malcolm looks like he takes that as a challenge. “You can’t stop me.”

“I _will,_ ” Gil says. “You just woke up. You didn’t think I was _real_ a half-hour ago. Nothing is worth your life, Malcolm!”

“Hers,” he says, and he so clearly means it. Never valuing himself over anyone. Such a stupid, _stupid kid._ “ _Hers_ is. Please. Call Colette. I need to—you don’t understand! You don’t. I thought…”

He covers his eyes, trying to clock out whatever he's seeing. “I thought she was dead. I thought he—no. No, _no._ Gil, let me—"

He starts frantically pulling at the tape securing his IV by himself. "Get it out! Fucking—let me _go!_ "

"Kid, stop—" 

Gil reaches for him, and Malcolm shrinks away, covers his face and gasps, " _Don't!_ " 

Gil stops, torn between making it worse _now_ or letting Malcolm walk out of here—if he even _can_ walk. 

"You can't _leave,"_ he says. 

"She's gonna die. She's gonna die. I'm—I can't do it—" His eyes go unfocused as he stares off, and his voice gets small and frightened again. "Don't...please don't make me. Please...I _can't._ "

And then he blinks, and doesn't seem to realize it's happened at all. He looks up at the nurse, expectantly, and says, much stronger, "I'm discharging myself. You can't force me to stay. Take it out or I will."

"You'll be leaving against medical advice," she says, taking his arm, and she looks irritated, grasps him too hard for Gil's liking.

"I'm aware," Malcolm says, and for the first time he really sounds like he is. His voice has steadied, and though it's still hoarse it sounds far more like it used to.

"Malcolm," Gil warns, but both of them know damn well there's nothing he can do, except maybe—

"I'll take you off the team," he says as a last resort, and Malcolm stares down at the IV as the nurse pulls it out of him, pressing down with a square of gauze.

"You can," Malcolm replies, bending his arm. "I just care about her."

He starts pulling off the other sensors, while Gil tries to think of something else to use to no avail.

And then Malcolm freezes as the nurse grabs for his blanket and pulls it aside.

The fear is back in half an instant. Malcolm gasps, pulls his knees up, and chokes, "What're you—?"

"You gonna walk out of here with your catheter in?" she asks. "Be my guest."

"The…" Malcolm blinks hard and clutches at the blanket. "No. I wasn't...no."

"Then I need to take it _out,"_ she says.

Her tone sounds like she thinks Malcolm needs to be spoken to like a child, and it annoys Gil, but he still stands to leave, figuring it's not the kind of thing Malcolm would want him to stay for. He turns, and then stops as Malcolm whispers, "Where are you…?”

"Out in the hall. I'll give Swanson a call _only_ so you can draw her a _map."_

Malcolm has tears in his eyes that weren't there just seconds before. Why does he look so scared? 

"Kid?" he asks, and Malcolm grips at the blanket, his attention only on Gil for a moment longer before he wildly looks back at the nurse as she reaches out, touching his knee and making him flinch so hard the bed shakes.

"Put your legs down," she says. 

"N-no," Malcolm replies. He pushes at one of her hands, and then repeats himself louder.

"Mr. Bright," she murmurs, strained. 

"Kid…" Gil says softly. "Hey. What's wrong?"

Malcolm doesn't reply. His breaths come in quick bursts, and he's staring at the nurse's hands, and then she goes to touch him with an aggravated sigh and all at once Malcolm is moving. His arms flail, and he chokes out a gasp, and he _kicks_ her, straight in the chest.

"No!"

"Kid—" Gil tries again. He doesn't understand how Malcolm can possibly have gone from coherent back to _this_ so quickly. "She's not going to hurt you!"

" _No!_ "

Winded, the nurse recovers. "Can you help me?" she asks, and he's hesitant to nod.

"Bright...hey, come on. Look at me. It's okay."

"Gil," Malcolm says, blinking hard as tears run down his cheeks. "Please—I can't—"

"Hey. Come here." Gil offers his arms again, and though Malcolm seems to consider it he doesn't move. He opts to continue staring at the nurse, watching her every move like she's a threat.

"Do you wanna leave?" she demands, and slowly Malcolm nods.

"I have to _do_ this, then. Can I?"

"Bright," Gil says softly, taking Malcolm's hand, and he startles but comes back, just a little. He looks at their hands, and then the nurse, and then very, very slowly spreads his shaking legs.

" _Thank_ you," she says, reaching between them.

And Malcolm _wails_.

It's somehow the most awful sound Gil has ever heard him make, even after the last few days. Malcolm's arms slam out again, then grab at Gil, and Gil wraps his own around him.

"You're safe! Bright, you're safe. Relax! Come on, just—please, you're gonna hurt yourself, you—"

" _John—"_ Malcolm mumbles, just loud enough to hear, writhing against him. " _St-t-top. Please—let go—stop—no!"_

The nurse tells Malcolm to take a deep breath.

Gil suddenly can't breathe at all.

_No._

_No, no._

That isn't—

He's misunderstood. Completely, entirely misunderstood. 

Malcolm gasps, kicking his legs out again, and the nurse steps back, rids the catheter into the biohazard bin and snaps off her gloves.

She leaves, and they're alone.

And Malcolm cries, clutches at Gil, curls into him, into himself. He groans, sounding _agonized,_ and Gil finally, desperately sucks air into his aching lungs. 

"Malcolm," he says, so softly. 

That isn't _possible_.

He's _misunderstood._

Not that.

No one had said _anything_ about _that._ He was beaten. He was tortured.

But not that.

Please, God, not that.

" _Malcolm_ ," he says again. 

Malcolm doesn’t reply, face buried in Gil’s shoulder, sniveling, and Gil settles his hand on Malcolm’s neck. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, although he’s no longer so convinced. “You’re safe. Can you hear me?” 

Slowly, Malcolm nods.

“Okay. Good. Just breathe. You’re safe. I have you.”

Malcolm sniffles, wipes his eyes and under his nose, and finally raises his head. He coughs, and lets out a last sob, and then takes a deep breath to steady himself. "The...the girl. I need to—please? Let me." 

Gil doesn't let go of him. He doesn't want to. He's _afraid_ to. He _can’t._

But he does reach one hand into his pocket to get his phone.

"Why—why are you shaking?" Malcolm asks.

"Nothing," Gil replies. He hadn’t realized he was. “It’s...nothing.” 

Malcolm leans into him again, rubbing his eyes, and Gil can only pray to God that that’s the truth.

**x**

Malcolm keeps losing track of what's happening. 

He's not quite seeing things, but there are shadows. Flashes of memory. And there's fear, a lot of it. It comes in waves. Nothing, and then everything. He's numb, and then he wishes he was.

He's in Gil's arms, and then he's alone in the room with a pair of clothes from home. He figures his old ones are evidence, and that's fine. He never wants to see them again. 

He's in the bed, and then he's standing, just barely, wobbling dangerously. His legs are weak, and there's thick bandages wrapped around his feet. They hurt, but only slightly. He's still heavily under the influence of whatever drugs they’ve had him on. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to walk once they wear off, so this has to happen now.

He can’t draw a map, and he told them that. He _doesn’t_ remember where it is. He doesn’t remember anything. He thinks...he thinks something bad happened, _knows_ it somewhere deep inside, but he just doesn’t know _what._ It’s blank. Even parts of his time captive... _most_ of it, really. 

There was just... _pain_ , and he remembers that better than anything. So much pain. _Too_ much. It’s all blurred together. He doesn’t know how long he was there, but it feels like he’s been gone years. And now he's stiff, sore, and it’s almost impossible just for him to reach behind his neck to untie the gown, to shrug it off.

He doesn’t brace himself enough for what he looks like underneath it, and he staggers, holding his arms out and staring down.

Too many bandages. Too many bruises. Ribs and hip bones jutting out of his skin in a way that might have made him feel sickly satisfied if only it had been his doing, his choice, his punishment to himself, not John’s. There’s a drainage tube and bag taped to his side, and bruises trailing lower… 

He sobs, just once, and closes his eyes. He can't look at himself any longer, and he _especially_ can't look there. He's _disgusting._ He needs a shower, a hundred—no, that's not _enough—_

He gags, covers his mouth with his arm and tries to breathe. And then he presses his fingers to the gauze covering just under his neck, the second place he'd have stitches.

‘ _Look what you made me do.’_

He stumbles again, grabbing onto the bed for support.

No. No, no. He doesn’t—he doesn’t want to see the damage. John's damage. John's _marks._

This isn’t about him. 

This is about _her._

From determination to save her alone, he manages to dress himself, though he can’t button his shirt or his pants.

Hurts. He hurts. God, he _hurts_. 

He clutches the gown to his front, slides the slippers they’d left for him onto his feet, and hobbles to the door. He opens it just a crack, and flinches when he sees his family, his team, all standing there, waiting for him.

“Gil,” he says, “I can’t…”

He backs up, and Gil opens the door to fit through it, closes it behind him and holds his hands out. “What’s wrong?”

Malcolm moves the gown, and the gasp that comes from Gil as he sees Malcolm's body waist up is enough to make Malcolm pull back, lowering his head in shame. 

“Oh, no, I’m—I’m sorry,” Gil murmurs, getting to one knee in front of him. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay. I just—are you in pain?”

Malcolm shakes his head, but it's a lie. Even if physically numb he’s in so _much_ pain, none of which he’ll ever be able to explain. They wouldn't _want_ him to.

“Can’t…” He wiggles the fingers of one hand, and Gil offers him a little smile.

“I can help you. Can I? Is that...okay? Can I touch you?"

He’s probably the only one Malcolm would allow to do so. Malcolm nods, just once, but still tenses as Gil starts to button his shirt up. 

Not John. Not John. _Gil._ Buttoning up, not taking off. 

John isn’t here.

John is…he’s...

Malcolm grimaces and rubs at his head, and he can’t remember what he was even thinking about when he opens his eyes again. Gil stands again, fixing Malcolm’s collar, and he just looks so _warm..._ so safe. Malcolm can’t stop himself from leaning towards him again, and Gil is careful as he hugs him, hardly touching him at all. 

“You can stay here, kid,” he says. “I want you to. You don’t have to—”

Malcolm pulls away, blinking hard. _Focus_. Not about him. He doesn’t deserve comfort. He doesn’t deserve warmth. He needs to move, or he’ll have killed the girl, just like he thought he already did. “I do.”

Gil nods, opening the door, and Malcolm flinches again, cringing under the attention as he steps out into the hall. 

“Hey, Bright,” Dani says.

_Dani._

His friend. His _only_ friend. The first person he'd worked with that had ever made him feel wanted.

He wants...God, he just wants to hug her. 

His head still tilted to the floor, he reaches an arm out, and she comes forward, wraps her arms around him just as gently as Gil. 

She’s so _soft._ She smells so good, like honey and vanilla and _Dani._ Her curls fall across his face, and there are tears in his eyes again, and he doesn’t want her to let go, _never_ wants to let her go. 

JT murmurs his name, too, greets him with a wave, and if Malcolm wasn’t convinced before he is now. 

This is real. They’re really here. _He’s_ really here.

And that might be more terrifying, because he just doesn’t know _how._

“The girl,” he says, finally, reluctantly pulling away, and Dani turns away for a moment, swipes her sleeve over her eyes before nodding. 

“Why…?” he asks, confused, a little _frightened,_ and she smiles at him. It's so sweet...so beautiful. Maybe it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Maybe _she_ is. 

“We missed you,” she says, voice just as sweet as she smells. “I missed you.”

His legs are weak again, and Gil’s hands are under his arms to keep him on his feet as he sways.

They missed him. They _missed_ him. 

They wanted him back.

But they don’t know what he’s done. That’s the only reason. And it’s going to come out sooner or later, likely by his own mouth, because he’s never been able to shut it when it came to the greater good of others.

Malcolm straightens his legs out, tries to force himself to stand again, but he can’t entirely manage it. Gil pulls one of his arms over a shoulder and swings him to his other side, sits him down in a wheelchair one of the nurses has rolled up to them.

  
Malcolm leans back, squinting. Things are so bright, so _loud._ His back is starting to hurt, just a little, and he flinches at the memory of why, of what John had done to him.

So much— _too much—_

“The girl,” he says again, to remind himself as much as them, and his mother is kneeling by his side, gently fitting his arms into a thick winter coat and then zipping it up, just like she used to when he was a child.

“I’m taking you home, after, okay?” She kisses his hand, his shoulder, and he tilts his head towards her, closes his eyes as he nuzzles against her hair. 

_Home...safe...warm._

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she says as she stands again, but when he opens his eyes he finds she’s addressing Gil, not him. “You shouldn’t be letting him—"

“My choice,” Malcolm tells her, trying to straighten up. “Have to. Okay? Just...please.”

She clutches her purse, huffing, and then starts off down the hallway, and JT takes the wheelchair from the nurse, pushing him forward, towards the elevators.

It’s snowing outside. Malcolm is shivering even before they exit, wrapping his arms around himself.

So cold. No, no. He’s cold. He’s _cold._ The cellar is so _cold—_

“Bright.” 

That’s _not_ a voice he wants to hear, but it lets him recall that he isn't there. He blinks, eyes darting upwards for just a moment before settling back on the ground where they belong. 

“Thank you,” Colette says, “for deciding to help. That girl’s life depends on you.”

“You’re not a good person,” JT says behind him, and she snorts, opening the door to her slick black SUV. 

“It’s warm. He doesn’t have to _do_ anything but sit and look out the window, see if he recognizes anything. That’s all I’m asking. I really don’t think that’s a lot, is it?”

Malcolm shakes his head. He puts his feet on the ground, tries to lift himself up, and then JT is grasping one of his arms as Gil takes the other, helping him into the backseat. 

“Watch your head,” JT says, and it feels an awful lot like he’s being arrested. He figures he should be. The heat is on, however, and as soon as he feels it he's more than willing to scoot in and to the middle, away from the cold. 

Colette closes the door, shuts him here _alone,_ and he chokes on the panic that immediately overwhelms him. No, he doesn’t want to be alone, not again—he can’t be, _please,_ he’s scared—

The door on the other side opens, and Malcolm lets out a sob as Gil ducks into the car, reaching out and grabbing onto him, dragging himself into Gil’s lap and hearing Gil’s quiet ‘ _oof!’_ as he accidentally sends his elbow into Gil’s stomach. 

“Don’t leave me,” he chokes, “don’t! Don’t, Gil—don’t go—please don’t go!”

“Malcolm,” Gil breathes, holding him close. “No, no, I’m sorry. I was never—I was never gonna leave you, kid! It was only a second, I’m sorry. Okay? I already told her I was coming with you. I should have told you.”

“So scared—" Malcolm says, “I was—I was so scared, I—he— _Gil—_ ”

“Oh, kid.” Gil presses his face against Malcolm’s hair. “I know. But you’re okay now. You’re safe. I’m not gonna leave. And listen—if you just want to go home, you tell me, okay? This doesn’t have to happen.” 

“It does,” Malcolm says, and flinches as the front door opens, looking up to see Colette slide into the driver’s seat. She glances back at them with her nose wrinkled, and then pulls the car into drive. 

Malcolm keeps his face against Gil’s chest, breathing in, and thinks about all the time he spent here after the arrest, when Gil was the only person he had, the only person that _mattered._ When Ainsley was too young to understand, and his mother was too drunk to bother, Gil and Jackie were there for him. He’d been used to so _much_ affection, he’d been _smothered_ in it for the first ten years of his life, and when it’d suddenly been taken away it had hurt. 

But _them_...they’d given him what he needed. They’d cradled him, let him climb into their bed after nightmares until those became more violent, held his hand at every outing. Even when Ainsley came along, and he’d been jealous, they’d found a way to spare him all the attention he could ever want.

They made him _happy_ , after he thought he’d never know what that felt like again.

Nothing he _deserved,_ but everything he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, muffled. “I’m so sorry…”

Gil holds his neck, fingers curled into his hair. "Hey, now. There's nothing to apologize for. Come on, kid. You're okay now."

"No," he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes.

He doesn't think he's ever going to be okay again.

**x**

"He's not asleep, is he?" 

Gil glares at Colette in the overhead mirror, and briefly mulls over ignoring her entirely. "We're not actually _there_ yet, are we?" 

Colette snorts. "I'm just concerned about the girl. I want her safe."

"At the expense of _Bright's_ safety. No loss to you. I understand." 

"You're just as dramatic as him! He's not in danger. He's sitting in a car. It's so hot in here I'm about to choke to death, but I have it that way for him. You're _cuddling_ him. He feels good enough to fall asleep. What more do you want from me, huh?"

"Empathy," Gil says. "For God's sake. He couldn't even dress himself. You didn't _see_ him. He's gonna be covered in scars, Swanson. It made me _sick._ He was _flayed_. And maybe he knows where he is now, but he's still not _here._ He's acting the same way he did after his father was arrested, when he was _ten._ "

Colette's eyes dart up to the mirror again, and she rolls her shoulders. "I feel bad for him." 

"You sure had me fooled." 

"He has you _all_ fooled," she snaps, gripping tight at the steering wheel. "All of you. John Watkins may have beaten him, but that doesn't mean they weren’t working together.”

“He didn’t just—" 

He cuts off, gritting his teeth.

She doesn’t know what he does. What Gil only _wishes_ he didn’t. What he’s been struggling to ignore, to push away, to pretend he hadn’t heard when everything Malcolm does just further convinces him he _had._

But he doesn’t know for sure. Nothing is for _sure._ He’d checked, but there was no indication in his record that any examination had been done. There’s no proof. He can’t do this to himself.

He takes a deep breath and holds Malcolm just a little tighter. "This wasn’t a _beating._ This was torture. They weren’t together. You don’t know—you just don't know him like I do.”

"And apparently, you don't know him like _I_ do. He’s got two faces. One for you and your team, a sweet, innocent little boy, and one for the rest of the people who've seen through it. A _criminal._ "

"John Watkins is a criminal. Not Bright." 

"We'll see exactly what _Whitly_ is," she says, almost inaudible.

Gil scowls. “You know _damn_ well that’s not his name anymore.”

"Oh, yeah. That's cute. He's cute, isn't he? Until he's not."

Gil breathes out through his nose. "You're wrong."

"We'll see, won't we? Wake him up."

He grits his teeth in a snarl, and then cups the back of Malcolm's neck and squeezes. He doesn't want to wake him, wants to let him have every second of rest, of reprieve, that he needs. “...Kid. Hey. Bright." 

Malcolm turns his head, whimpers softly into Gil's chest, and then cracks his eyes open. He doesn’t panic, like Gil had been expecting, just tries to get closer, shivering like he’s somehow still cold when Gil has sweat beading down his forehead.

"Sorry," Gil says, gently rubbing his thumb in a soothing, circular motion. "You okay? You can still go home. Just say the word."

Malcolm shakes his head, and Colette pulls off to the side of the road, glaring back at them.

“You’re not a _child,_ Bright,” she says. “Sit up. You can’t see like that. Or did you really waste everyone’s time? That girl is dying!”

Malcolm reacts to the last bit immediately, sliding out of Gil’s lap and onto the seat, pushing himself against the door and bringing his knees up. He hunches his shoulders and lowers his head, looking just as frightened as he had after the arrest, before Gil and Jackie had managed to help him through it. 

It’s in-fucking- _furiating_ to see all their work—all of _Jackie’s work—_ unraveling in front of him, to see her hurting him like this, after he’s already been hurt far, far too much.

“If you want his help,” Gil hisses, leaning forward, “that’s not how to get it!"

“Looks like it worked to me,” Colette says, pulling the car back onto the road, and Gil scoots to the middle, offering Malcolm his hand. 

Malcolm flinches at it, like Gil touched him when Gil made sure to avoid exactly that. It’s only for a second, but he looks at Gil’s hand like it’s going to _hurt_ him. Like _Gil_ is going to hurt him.

_‘John—please let go—’_

Gil jerks his head to the side so suddenly it leaves an ache, trying to stop Malcolm’s desperate plea from repeating as it’s been since he heard it. "Sorry…how are you feeling?"

Malcolm doesn't answer. Instead he reaches out, fingers curling and uncurling in a childish gesture for Gil’s hand, and Gil gives it to him, watches him pull it against his chest and hold it there, like he had with his own the last time Gil had asked.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, and Malcolm nods, just once.

“They gave you a prescription. I have it. Do you want one? It’ll make you sleepy, but it won’t hurt anymore. No? That’s okay. How about some water? Are you thirsty?”

Malcolm doesn’t acknowledge him, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let go of Gil’s hand.

Not okay...but alive. That has to be enough for now.

They drive around the main and side roads for an hour, and Malcolm only stares out the window. Gil has to keep squeezing his hand to make sure he's not back in the state he'd been in the hospital, and though Malcolm's only response is to blink and shift a little, or tilt his head against the window, it's _something._

“Nothing?” Colette keeps asking, and Malcolm keeps flinching, looking nothing less than ashamed for not remembering one trip from twenty years ago, and another he was likely _unconscious_ for.

Gil keeps telling him it’s _okay_ , though he doesn’t look like he believes it. 

Colette is letting out yet another dramatically loud sigh of exasperation when suddenly Malcolm sits up straight, his eyes wide, and says, "Stop."

It's too quiet for Colette to hear, and so Malcolm yells it before Gil can even begin to help.

"Stop! Stop, stop!" 

She slams the breaks, and Malcolm fumbles at the door, pushes it open and slaps Gil's hands away as he tries to stop him from getting out.

"Malcolm, wait!”

Malcolm doesn’t, hitting the ground with a _thud_ and a muffled sob. Gil slips out of the car to kneel beside him, grabbing under his arms and hauling him back up. 

  
“Hey, come here—talk to me, kid, what’s wrong?” 

“ _Dad_ ,” Malcolm moans, and Gil tries to guide him back to sit in the car.

“Malcolm—”

“Please—just wanna go home—it’s cold,” he’s mumbling, staring out at the trees. “I don’t...I don’t wanna…it’s bad...bad, it’s bad—it’s bad!” He struggles, and Gil holds onto him tighter than he wants to, tight enough it makes Malcolm moan in pain _,_ because he can’t lose him. He can’t risk Malcolm hurting himself, or running off and losing them. 

“It’s bad!” Malcolm shouts, and when Gil looks at Colette, maybe for _help,_ she rolls her eyes like this all just so _inconvenient_ to her as she gets out.

“Bright, easy, _easy,_ ” Gil says, “it’s me, it’s Gil, it’s okay. Relax. You have to relax! You’re going to tear your stitches! You’re safe!” 

“Where are those pills?” Colette calls, bent into the backseat now, and Gil scowls at her.

“We are not _drugging_ him!”

“You want him to keep on like that?”

“Just—no—agh—” He pulls Malcolm in front of him, wincing as the kid slams his hands against him. “The water! Just splash him with water!”

She snatches the bottle off the floor, uncaps it, and squeezes it in front of Malcolm, sends a pressurized stream of nearly _all_ of it straight into his face.

Malcolm chokes, starting to cough, and then slumps in Gil’s arms, spitting and huffing water from his nose.

“I said _splash him,_ ” Gil snaps, combing Malcolm’s dripping wet hair out of his face, and Malcolm stares up at him, confused.

“Gil—” he gasps, blinking hard. “Why—"

“Why’d you stop us, Bright?” Colette asks, stepping up to him, and he presses back against Gil. “Do you remember being here?”

“I—I—d-don’t know,” Malcolm says at last, looking around. “I—I don’t—it’s...looks the same, I…” He frowns, breathing hard, and squeezes his eyes shut. “We went...c- _camping,_ and I…”

Slowly, he points at the mile marker on the road, and then his legs give, and Gil lifts him up, setting him back into the backseat.

“Relax, kid. You're—”

“Do you remember which way you went next?” Colette interrupts, and Gil yanks the water bottle from her hand, swearing under his breath.

Malcolm looks around again, swallows hard, and says, “M...maybe. I’m not…”

“Just breathe, okay?” Gil asks. “Just relax. You’re doing really good, Bright. Really good. Take a drink, huh?”

He presses the bottle to Malcolm’s lips, and then Malcolm flinches back, gasps in a breath and doesn’t exhale it as he claps both hands over his mouth.

Gil backs away, just a little, because Malcolm looks _terrified,_ and asks as softly as he can, “What?”

Malcolm gags against his palm, and then doubles over in a fit of painful-sounding dry-heaves. 

“Shit—” Gil takes another step back, trying to let him breathe. “Bright, what’s wrong?”

Malcolm grabs at the door, panting, and spits again. He frowns, touches his mouth, and shakes his head. 

“I don’t...know,” he says, sounding just as confused as he looks. “I don’t…um…”

Colette impatiently snaps her fingers, and it makes Malcolm flinch again. “Which way, Bright? Do you know or not?”

Gil steps in front of him, blocking her view of him, and says, “I don’t care _who_ I have to tell, IA or _further_ , but your behavior is _disgustingly_ inappropriate for—"

“He’s The Surgeon’s _kid,_ ” she says. “That’s why he was fired, and that’s why no one will _care._ But fine. Go ahead. I just want to find his victim alive, alright? John Watkins’ victim, of course.” She looks over Gil’s shoulder. “Which way was that again, Bright?”

With his trembling hand, Malcolm points towards a dirt path off-road and then goes back to a tiny, repetitive motion of rubbing his fingertip against his lower lip.

“That’s good, kid,” Gil says. “That’s real good. I'm gonna close the door and come around the other side, okay?” 

He waits until Malcolm nods, which takes far too long, and then carefully shuts him inside, quickly rounding the car. He expects Malcolm to jump at him again, but instead Malcolm has curled against the door, turned away from him.

"Keep it up, Bright," Colette says, sounding surprisingly encouraging as she starts the car forward. "You went camping, right? Tell me how to get where you went." 

Gil tries to take Malcolm's hand again, and he jerks it away, tucks both of them away in his coat and pulls his knees up.

Gil doesn't understand what suddenly changed. It _hurts_ him. But he gives the kid as much space as he can, rubbing his face as Malcolm gives stuttered, one word responses to Colette and shaky points of his finger. 

And then, Colette says, "That's something up there."

Gil straightens up, squinting, and then smiles at Malcolm. "I think you did it, kid."

Instead of replying, Malcolm slips down to the floor behind the passenger seat and curls into himself there, cradling his head and mumbling under his breath. 

“Stay here,” Colette orders as she parks the car, getting out, and Gil snaps that he wasn’t fucking _planning_ on leaving Malcolm alone because he’s not a—

The door slams shut, cutting him off. And in the sudden silence, he hears Malcolm sniffling. 

He can't handle the kid crying anymore. Jesus, he just _can't._

“Talk to me, Malcolm,” he begs. “Please. What’s wrong?”

Malcolm covers his ears, whimpering softly, and Gil sighs, takes out one of the pills from the bottle and holds it out to Malcolm.

“Please take this?"

Malcolm looks at it for a moment and then shakes his head.

“Not sleepy, Dad,” he says. “Don’t wanna go to bed yet. No.” 

Gil startles, rolling the pill between two fingers. “Did...did your dad give you something like this?” 

“I don’t wanna sleep!” Malcolm shouts, turning his head away, and Gil drops it back in the container, hides it out of Malcolm's sight.

"That's okay. You don't have to. Can I touch your hair?" Gil asks, and Malcolm lowers his hands, just a little, and tilts his head up against Gil's palm as he starts to stroke through Malcolm's tangles. 

"You can go home, now," he says. "You can. Can you hear me? Home?" 

"Home," Malcolm echoes. "W...wanna go home."

"I know, kid. _Goddamn_ , do I know."

**x**

It's too loud. 

Even as Malcolm covers his ears, he can still hear sirens too close, a helicopter above them. He cries, because he just _needs_ to, because there's so much pressure inside of his lungs and his chest and his head that he wants to _scream,_ and Gil gently massages his scalp, rubs his fingers in circles and tries to soothe him.

"Do you remember Jackie used to sing to you?” Gil asks at some point, and Malcolm rubs his forehead against Gil’s knee. “Every time you had a nightmare. She had—she had such a beautiful voice, didn't she? I can't sing, kid. But she would've. If she was here, she would."

Malcolm misses her. He thinks about the way Gil had sobbed into his shoulder when he got out of his taxi at the hospital, the only time he'd ever seen Gil break down, telling him she wasn't going to make it through the weekend. He remembers the way she looked in that bed, the way she'd never opened her eyes the whole time they were there, the way Gil hadn't left her side, not even to eat. The way he'd cradled her and cried, long after a nurse had come to shut off the monitor. 

The pain in his chest at the memories reminds him where he is, who he’s with. In the car, with Gil.

_Gil..._

"Malcolm, she loved you so much," Gil says. _"I_ love you so much. Okay? You can talk to me. You can. Anything you need, I'm here. I've always been here, just for you. Twenty years, and it's not gonna change now."

_But it will._

And to prove it, Malcolm breathes in, and says, "I killed her." 

Gil's hand stops moving. "What? Who?"

He doesn't sound like it's unbelievable. Malcolm was always capable. Gil probably knew that, maybe even feared he'd be first when Malcolm finally snapped.

"The Girl," Malcolm replies. "I...I killed her. I...I did. I killed her. I'm...a murderer."

Gil _shushes_ him. He says, “No you didn’t,” and rubs Malcolm’s head again. He says, “No you’re not,” and Malcolm knows Gil thinks he means the girl in the cabin, not in the box, in the trunk, in the—

In the…

He blinks tears from his eyes, wipes water from his forehead, and looks down at it.

In the…

_‘Can we come back in the summer? I want to go swimming.’_

  
  
“It’s okay,” Gil says.

It’s not. It’s _not_ okay.

“It was Watkins,” Gil tells him. “We know it was. They’ll find the evidence she needs.”

_Watkins._

_John._

_J-John...stop, please, no—_

“Do you…” Gil speaks again, hesitantly, and despite how soft his voice is it still makes Malcolm flinch. “Do you know where he is, Bright?”

‘ _I am your savior. You're mine, little Malcolm. Mine.'_

Malcolm jerks his head up, looking around. 

Gil. Not John. Not—

“Malcolm?” 

_‘Look at the camera.’_

Camera.

The _camera._

John grabbing him, pinning him down _, let go, please, God, let go—_

He grabs onto the seat, hauling himself up, and looks out the window. There’s an ambulance pulling out, and federal agents sweeping the trees, towards the cabin. 

The cabin.

Blindfolded, led into it—running—thrown down the stairs and chained—so cold, hurts so _much—John, get off!_

_'What will your friends think of you?'_

Oh, God.

No.

_No, no, no._

That's not something they can find. That's not something they can _see._

Oh, _fuck._

Gil’s moved back, and he can’t stop Malcolm in time as Malcolm shoves the door open, wincing as icy wind whips at his face and as his aching feet hit the ground.

“Bright, stop!"

Malcolm ignores him, stumbling forward. He can't stop, he can't, he has to find—

Things tilt, and he blinks once upright, then again slumped forward, with Gil's arm wrapped around his middle. 

"Easy," Gil says, and Malcolm groans.

"Have to…"

"What do you have to do, huh? What's so important? Why do you want to go back?" 

Malcolm reaches out, eyes still on the cabin, and chokes, " _Please."_

"Jesus, kid. Hold on." He drapes Malcolm's arm around his shoulders, shaking his head. "What do you want there?" 

Doesn't want. _Needs._ Has to get it first. _Please._

Malcolm clumsily steps forward, leaning against him, and Gil heaves out a sigh and allows it, leads them forward and to the cabin.

Everyone is looking at him as they pass. At _Malcolm._ He knows they are, even if he doesn't look up. He can feel it. It makes his skin crawl. It makes him think of how John has stared at him. How John had looked at him while he—

"What are you _doing?"_ Colette snaps, and Gil lowers Malcolm to sit on the bottom stair as they enter and stands in front of him. 

"He wanted to come."

" _Why?_ "

"Well, he's not exactly _coherent,_ so, did I have a conversation with him? Not really!" 

Past them, across the hall, is the wide-open door to the cellar, and Malcolm whimpers, tears starting to sting his eyes as he scoots back. 

_'What is this?'_

_'Atonement.'_

_'Don't leave me here—'_

Away, get away _, no—_ not there, not there—he can't—please—

He pulls himself up, scrambles up the stairs, and shuts himself into the bedroom.

He turns, and remembers being here before. The first night, only hours into his abduction. 

John hadn't hurt him yet. John had almost been _kind._

Maybe...maybe if Malcolm had just been _good_ , right from the start, John wouldn't have…

He covers his face, buries it into the bend of his elbow, and tries to breathe.

_Bad. Dirty. Sinner. Murderer. John would have hurt you anyway, because you deserve it._

He staggers, blinking hard, and notices something in the dim light coming from the curtained window, a dark rectangle on the bed and a smaller one beside it.

He draws closer, and finds it's a laptop. He grabs for the shape beside it, and feels bile rising in his throat as he realizes he's holding a plastic container of SD cards that rattle as his hand starts to shake. 

Not imagined, then. That really happened.

Oh, God, it _happened._

He dumps them out on the blanket, hardly able to pick them up one at a time with his tremor.

_Cassidy_ , reads the scribbling on the front of the first.

They're fucking _labeled._

_Alex. Monty. Chloe._

He gags. He doesn't want to know what's on them. He can't even imagine, doesn't _dare._

Not him. Not him. Not _him._

No, he _remembers._ He remembers. John—

His gaze fixes on the laptop, and he grabs for it, turns it over, and pulls the SD card from the card reader out. 

There's no label on it, but he knows. He _knows._ He—

_'I'm going to slit her throat. You're going to watch.'_

"No—" he gasps, slumping to his knees. "Stop—"

_'I'm going to ruin you—let them all hear you scream—such a pretty mouth—you're mine—'_

He's crying, and he can't stop. He _can't._ It hurts. God, it _hurts_. He covers his filthy mouth and can feel John's beard against it, crushing kiss after kiss he didn't want to him—in front of—

He'd been outside. Outside, right? He'd...been outside. Somewhere. Looking up at the sky. Just a hallucination, or…

He looks down at his hand, and vaguely, so damn _vaguely,_ remembers hitting it. He'd...hit it to escape, hadn't he? 

Yes. He'd escaped. He'd escaped because John had left him alone, had left the tools within reach, and gone up here to watch his abuse on video, on _repeat._

The girl. He'd—he'd just _left_ her down there. Hadn't told the police, or _anyone._ And John—

Where is John? 

He feels sick. Something is wrong. Very, _very_ wrong, but he can't quite—

The door opens, and a man he doesn't know looks in at him like he's crazy. 

He is. He's fucking _crazy._ He can't remember—

"Swanson," the man calls, and Malcolm feels the card in his hand, shoving it into the pocket of his coat just as Colette enters the room. 

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Malcolm shakes his head, and he _laughs_ , overwrought."I—I don't know!" he says, because it's the _truth._ What _can_ one do, finding something like this of themselves? Knowing what he knows? He’s wanting to die, is what he’s fucking doing.

She approaches him with an expression of pure contempt. "What is all that?" she asks, and he almost breathes until— 

"What did you put in your jacket?"

_No._ No, she can't have that. None of them, but _especially_ not her. "I didn't—"

"Give it to me."

"No," he says, scooting back, and then she leans down, tries to reach into his pocket—

_'Oh, my Malcolm—'_

Malcolm screams. It startles her away, and he scrambles into the corner of the room and shouts, " _Gil!"_

In an instant, Gil is upstairs. He yells at Colette to get away from him, and then the second he kneels beside Malcolm, Malcolm is shoving his way into his arms, grabbing onto him. 

"I couldn't find you!" Gil whispers. "Why are you up here?" And then, when Malcolm can only whimper, he demands, "What did you do to him, huh?"

Colette turns to the man at the door. “Can you fucking believe this?” she asks, and looks back to Gil. "Do you think I _hurt_ him? I didn't do anything! He's hiding evidence! It's in his pocket!"

Gil looks at Malcolm, holding him steady as he trembles. "Evidence?" he asks, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut.

"No...no, it's not—"

"An SD card," Colette says. "There's a whole thing of them here. _Evidence._ I didn't hurt him. I want that back, though."

"No, it's mine, you can't," Malcolm says. “You _can’t._ Please don’t, please, _Gil, Gil, please…”_

Gil’s grip on his coat tightens. “What? What do you have?” 

This can’t be happening. It _can’t_ be. He wants to be dreaming. He’d rather be back in the cellar than this. He wants to throw up and he _can’t,_ there’s nothing in him, not for _weeks._

Colette’s glare is daggers and poison when Malcolm looks up, and he sobs, pressing his face against Gil’s shoulder. 

“Give it to me, Bright, or—" She scoffs, shakes her head, and then says, “You know what? Get up. Stand him up, Arroyo.”

“What are you—”

“I’m putting him under _arrest,"_ she says, yanking handcuffs out of her belt, and Malcolm cries out at the sight, slams himself back against the bed and kicks out. 

“Gil—God, please! Please no—"

“I’m done playing games! Malcolm Bright, you’re under arrest on the suspicion of aiding and abetting one John Watkins, and obstruction of justice. Get him up! And get that card, or I’ll have someone else do it.”

No—no more cuffs, no more chains—please, no more—no, no, _no—_

Gil tucks Malcolm closer to his chest, putting his hand out in her direction.

“If you try to put those cuffs on him," he growls, "I won’t have a job for you to take anymore.”

“Was that a _threat,_ Arroyo? Resorting to violence? Typical, isn’t it? Do you know how much blood they found in that cellar? It looks like someone was _killed_ down there. There’s no real proof they weren’t, I guess. No proof there _was,_ either, except maybe what _he’d_ want to hide. Are you saving John or yourself, Bright? Give me that card.”

“Can’t have it,” Malcolm whispers, “please. Y-you don’t understand...Gil, you _don’t understand._ ”

Gil doesn’t reply for a second, and for that second, Malcolm thinks maybe, _maybe_ it’ll be okay. 

And then he says, “Malcolm…you know I need to take it.” and Malcolm falls apart, pushes himself away and covers his face. 

“You _can’t—_ you—" 

“I have to. Malcolm, it’s evidence, you _know—_ listen, kid, I know it’ll clear you. I know it will. This is _good,_ okay? This is really good!”

Malcolm laughs again, far louder. 

“Good?” he chokes out. “It’s good?”

It’s good. 

John had called him good, too. 

Gil looks so confused, Colette looks so _angry—_ he can’t fucking stand it anymore, he can’t _breathe,_ he needs air, needs to get the fuck _out_ of here—

He grabs onto the bed, forces himself to his feet.

And he’s _relieved_ when everything tilts, when his breath leaves him in a sigh and dizziness drowns him like the icy waters of the lake, and he pitches forward into nothing.

**x**

Gil sees the color drain from Malcolm’s face the second he stands, sees his eyes start to roll back and catches him in his arms as he falls. “Hell—Malcolm!” 

He cups the kid's cheeks, and they're _freezing._ He should _never_ have allowed Malcolm to leave.

Colette isn’t bothered. She steps forward, holds out her hand, and says, “You stay in the back with him. You don't let him out of your sight until we're back at your precinct, or I _will_ cuff him."

"He needs to go back to the hospital," Gil says. 

"Fine. Manhattan has plenty to choose from. Give me the card, or I’ll get it myself. Actually, don’t bother. You’ve already been _so_ helpful.” She crouches down, snatches the card out of Malcolm’s pocket, and Gil looks up at her.

“ _What?_ ” she demands.

He swallows hard, and says, “What are you going to do with it?”

“What do you think? Why else was he hiding it, if not to cover up what he did?”

“I think...I think we should discuss—"

“No. No more talking. No more bullshit. This is my case, and I’m closing it. _Today._ Let’s go. Get him in the hospital, and I’ll get a guard outside his room.”

“ _Swanson,”_ he says, but she ignores him, turns on his heel and tells the man at the door to bag the evidence before shoving her way out of the room.

Gil closes his eyes, composing himself, and then lifts Malcolm up. He brings him into the back of the car again, and holds him for the entire ride back to New York, to the hospital closest to the precinct.

Malcolm shifts a few times, but never responds when Gil murmurs his name.

Gil wants him to stay asleep, because he’s starting to fear he knows _why_ he’s so afraid.

And that makes Gil afraid, too. 

He doesn’t tell Jessica, or Ainsley, about what happened. About what he _thinks_ happened. He just lets them know the hospital he gives Malcolm to, and waits until they arrive, and then takes a taxi back to the precinct.

“You can’t,” he says, stopping Colette just as she heads into the conference room. Dani and JT are over her shoulder, but so are the agents assigned to the case. 

“Can’t _what?”_ she asks. She looks cheerier than ever, but that's only a part of the reason Gil feels like he’s going to vomit.

“You can’t play it. Not in front of them all. Let _me_ watch it, I can—”

“No,” she says. “No, that’s not how this works. You see, I know what you’d do. You’d see him doing something criminal, and you’d cover it up. Just like Jessica Whitly, and just like Malcolm. You’re not his blood, but you’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you? You love him?”

Gil shifts, setting his jaw. “I do.”

“Then I know it’ll be hard to see. But here we are. We all make choices. His happened to be the wrong ones. Now _move._ ”

He doesn’t, but she easily pushes past him. He rubs at his beard, and then turns and gets in front of her again as she’s hooking it up to the television they’ve rolled in.

“Swanson, hold on—"

“Get out of my _face,_ ” she says, and he lowers his voice even more.

“You need to listen to me, okay? I—I think he was—"

“I don’t _need_ to listen to anyone, _especially_ not you. You know how close I am with your boss. Maybe I’ll get you for obstruction of justice, too. I’m sick of hearing I’m wrong, Arroyo. You’ve all made me think I’m some—some fucking villain when I’m _not._ I’m just right. And you know what? Here’s the proof.”

And she grabs the remote, and presses play. 

**x**

Malcolm doesn't remember the drive. He doesn’t remember how he got into another bed, or where he even _is._ There’s another IV in his arm, and there’s fog in his head that makes him hazy, makes him fade in and out for a long while.

He thinks about John.

He thinks about The Girl.

And then he thinks about his father.

Something is _wrong._

He sits up, slowly, and nearly faints again as the world doubles and shakes. He scratches at the tape around the IV, and then opts to disconnect the line instead. Anything to stop whatever they’re giving him. He can’t focus, and he _needs_ to, because there’s something he has to remember.

He rubs his eyes, trying his hardest to come back to himself.

His father…

Martin had been there, hadn’t he? Somewhere at the end. He’d been there. Why? _How?_

He remembers being on the ground, John pressing on his hand, kissing him in front of his father. He remembers seeing his father lying unconscious, and then...and then...

John... _John_ is...he’s…

John…

He’s _dead,_ isn’t he?

He’s dead, just like The Girl.

He holds his hand up, and it’s dripping with blood. He tries to breathe in and finds he can’t, choking up the water filling his lungs instead.

The Girl brushes her fingers through his hair, whispers his name

And he remembers. 

Suddenly, he remembers everything.

It's not clear. It's not vivid. 

But he remembers.

And suddenly, there's not a damn thing in the world he wouldn't do just to forget again. 


	22. And Everything In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every day I'm fucking in awe of the support you all give me. It's nothing I've experienced before, and I just want to thank you, every single person who's ever clicked this, from the bottom of my heart. I'm excited for all that's to come, and it's wild that others are too. Thank you. ♡
> 
> TW for mentions of cancer, predatory behavior, and death.

It's quiet, and she's happy. 

A banner spelling out HAPPY BIRTHDAY swings in the wind coming through the cracked-open window, fluttering against the wall. She thinks it sounds a bit like the wings of the doves she sometimes chases outside, just to watch them soar. 

An astronaut. That's what she wants to be. She'd told her mother yesterday she wanted to be a teacher, just like her, and told her class last week she wanted to be a firefighter, just like her dad.

But she doesn't.

She wants to fly. She wants to go to the moon. 

No. She wants to go further, until she can touch the stars.

Her bedroom door opens, and she smiles up at her father as he enters.

"I'm sorry…" he says. "I know I said I'd be home for the party…but I got caught up at work." 

It happens. It doesn't make her upset. He still comes home, and he sometimes makes it up to her with _extra_ chocolate sauce on her ice cream, and that's what matters. 

"It's okay, Daddy," she says. "Because even when sissy bit me today and it hurt a little, you know what I didn't do? Bite her back. Because I'm seven now. I'm not a baby. And only babies bite people. Babies like her. And dogs, sometimes. Also, I want to be an astronaut. Okay?"

Her dad giggles, but she isn't sure why what she said was funny. She's very serious. Careers are serious business, she hears. 

"I’m proud of you. Very big girl. And that's very cool of you! You'll do everything you ever dreamed, I know you will."

"I will," she agrees. "I'm de—data—um...deter…"

"Determined?" 

"That," she agrees. "I'm very that."

"And I love you more every day for it. But on this _special_ day...I might have got you something…"

She lights up even more, excitedly clapping her hands together. "Yeah?" 

He gives her his best _'you're silly'_ look, and she knows. But her mom told her she needs to make sure to act grateful, so _probably_ that means to be extra nice about it. A present? On her _birthday?_ Why, she’d never expected such a thing!

“ _Yeah,_ ” he says, and finally pulls his hand out from behind his back, gives her a little box with a ribbon around it, tied in a bow. It’s pink, and she loves pink! Her sissy says blue is better, and that’s a lie. It’s not. But her sissy is barely _ever_ right about _anything,_ because she’s a whole two years younger and _not_ an adult. 

She unwraps it, tugs the little strand free and thinks it’d look nice in her hair, placing it on her bed to save for later. 

And then she opens the box and gasps. 

“ _Daddy,_ ” she says, awed, and takes out what’s inside. “It’s so _pretty!_ This is for _me?"_

He looks so _happy,_ and it makes her happy, too. He nods, rocking back on his heels, and asks, “You like it?” 

“Yeah! I love it! There’s…” She looks closer, and grins up at him. “There’s moons on it! Like an astronaut!”

“ _Pretty_ sure I read your mind on that one,” he says, sitting on the edge of her bed, and she jumps up and into his arms, snuggling up to his chest. 

“It’s mine?” 

“It’s yours,” he says, taking a dangling piece of it between two fingers. “See?”

She looks a little closer, and sure enough, she finds the proof that it’s _hers._

“That’s me,” she whispers, touching the engraved initials. “That’s me!”

“It’s you,” he agrees.

She sticks her arm out, and he wraps the bracelet around her tiny wrist and clasps it. The light shines off the gems, the golden moons, and she loves it. She tells him, and then tells him _again_ just so he knows.

“I love _you,_ Ady,” he tells her, nuzzling her and kissing her forehead. “Happy Birthday.”

She wraps her arms around him in a hug, and stares at it over his shoulder, tilts her hand back and forth so it glitters.

Maybe she’s never even going to _wear_ it. Not outside, anyway. It’s too beautiful. She never wants to get it dirty. It's a bit big on her, and she never wants to _lose_ it. 

No, she’s going to keep it in the box, right where it belongs, forever.

**x**

When she’s nine, the boys in her class make her cry. They call her names, and laugh at her, and she doesn't know what she's done wrong. One day to the next, they suddenly stopped liking her. They call her ugly, and pull one of her pigtails, and next time her dad tries to do her hair like that she tells him no.

"Oh?" he asks, and she crosses her arms, sitting in his lap, and leans back against him.

"They make me look stupid," she says. "I don't want them." 

"Stupid? Who told you that?"

"The boys," she says. "They told me I'm ugly. One of them is Alex, and Alex made them laugh at me, because he said I'm a pig."

"Oh, sweetheart," her father says. He wraps his arms around her, holds her close, and she's never felt safer, not ever.

She loves her mom, and she loves her sister, but she loves him most. Even when he's not around, or late for dinner, or gone before breakfast. She loves their hugs, but she loves his most. They feel the best, and the most protective. He tells her how he will do anything in the world for her, and she believes it. 

"They're brats," he goes on. "Bullies. I'm so sorry. You're not a pig, and you don't look stupid. You shouldn't have to care what any of them say, you know that?" 

"But I do," she says. "'cause it hurts. They made me cry in front of the whole class."

"Sweet girl," he says, turning her to face him, and cups her cheeks. "Don't you ever let them see you cry, alright? You have to be strong. You have to know your worth. And my love, you're worth everything. You're worth the sky and the stars and the moon you want to walk on so much." 

She smiles, and feels like she drank something warm from the swell of emotion in her chest, and she jumps against him in a hug that makes him laugh.

"I do wanna," she says, nuzzling him. "I'll go one day."

"Wave to me when you're up there, will you?" he asks. "I'll be watching." 

"You can come with me, Daddy. I don't wanna leave you here. Momma can come too, and sissy if she's _nice."_

"That sounds perfect," he says, and it really does. 

She goes to school with pigtails every day for a week straight, and kicks Alex between his legs when he tries to tug one.

He doesn't touch her again, and she holds her head up in pride. Her bracelet is safe in her pocket, and she thinks it gives her special powers, extra strength. No one else deserves to see it but her.

She'll be on the moon one day, and the rest of the world down here won't matter, not one bit.

**x**

At eleven, after spring break, her math teacher doesn’t come to work. The teachers spend the day whispering to each other between class changes, and then gather the students up to tell them that they’ve found out the man has passed away.

Ady doesn’t understand, really. She gets a letter to take home to her parents, and even when she reads it over and over again it doesn’t make sense.

How can someone be there one day, and gone the next? 

She’d never liked math, and had never liked the teacher. But she finds herself crying, and she just doesn’t know why. 

She’s _confused._ She hands the note to her mom when she gets off the bus, and as their hands touch, Ady is suddenly overwhelmed with a sadness she can’t control, tears she can’t hold back.

“Oh, sweetie,” her mother says, pulling her into a hug. “I’m sorry.”

“What is...dead?” she asks. She’s heard it before, she knows it exists. She watches TV, sometimes, and she’s seen it there. But her mom and dad have done such a good job at sheltering her from the darkness of the world that she had almost been able to forget it was real.

“That’s a question,” her mother replies at last, “that I’m not sure I have the answer to.”

It’s a strange conversation, as they drive the short way home. It’s even stranger when her mother tries to make her feel better by fixing her favorite dinner, and giving her a bowl of ice cream without her even asking.

She doesn’t feel much like it, though. She has too much on her mind. Her sister tries to play with her, and she doesn’t want to. She lays in bed, quietly, and touches her bracelet, looking out the window until she hears a knock on the door.

“Ady?” 

She smiles, but it’s sad. She invites her father inside, and he creaks the door open in such a cautious manner that it makes her nervous.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asks, and he comes closer, sits on the edge of her bed and runs a hand through hair dripping wet from the shower he takes after work. 

“I heard about what happened,” he says. “And I heard...that you have questions your mom couldn’t really answer.”

She fiddles with the charms on her wrist, takes a deep breath and sighs it out. “I don’t know.”

“Well...if you do, you can talk to me. Okay? Death is…it’s complicated. It’s—”

“Are you and mom going to die?” 

Her father stops talking. Her eyes fill with tears, and she grabs her pillow to bury her face in.

“Ady, sweetie...hey. You’re too young to be worrying about this, baby! Your mom and I are healthy. We’re still pretty young, too. Okay? We’re not going anywhere. Not for a long time.”

“So you _are?_ ”

“...Everyone dies, Ady. It’s just a part of life.”

“But _why?_ That’s stupid! I hate it! I don’t want you to die!” She throws her pillow across the room and sobs, and he holds his arms out.

“Come here.”

Slowly, she climbs into his arms, and he squeezes her. 

“It’s okay, Ady,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about that for a long time. We wouldn’t leave you and your sister, alright? I promise.”

“How do I know?” she manages. “How do I know you won’t?”

He rubs her back. He extends his arm, grabs the pen on her desk, and then takes her hand, drawing a heart just under the bracelet. 

“Because I _promise,_ ” he says. “And you’ve always been able to trust me, haven’t you?”

She nods. He’s never lied to her before, not ever. He doesn’t know why he would start now, especially about something like this. 

“Then trust me,” he says, kissing over the ink. “This is my promise. Okay? It’s not just words. You can see it, right here. I’ll be here for a long, long time, Ady.”

“You promise,” she says, looking up at him. “Okay.”

“I love you,” he tells her, kissing her head. “You and your mom and your sister are the only thing in my life that I have ever loved so much. So you believe me, okay?”

“Yeah, Daddy. I believe you.”

She hugs him tighter, and she feels safe in his arms. She knows he’s telling the truth. 

Maybe death exists, but not here. Not in her home. Not in her family. They’re safe, and they’re happy.

Not for a long time, anyways, right? 

**x**

She’s just thirteen when her father dies. 

It happens at work. She doesn't know until their mother tells them through tears that night. 

It happens at work, and this morning she hadn't said goodbye. He'd kissed her on the nose, and her mouth had been full of breakfast, and he'd laughed as she tried to smile.

He'd walked out of the house, and out of their lives forever. 

He was saving people. They say how brave he was, how courageous and wonderful and selfless. 

But she's angry at him.

She doesn't understand how he could have been so selfish, and yet left them behind.

Left _her_ behind, after promising that he wouldn’t.

Her sister clings to her at the funeral, sobs against her shoulder, and she tries to be strong. That’s what she’s supposed to do. That’s what she _promised_ him she’d do. 

So she draws a heart on her wrist, and draws one on her sister’s. She says, “I promise we’ll be okay. This is my promise, see?”

“How can we?” her sister asks through tears.

They won’t be. She knows that. But she'd promised.

“I just don’t know,” she says eventually. “I think we just have to be strong.” 

But it's hard. It's harder than kicking a stupid boy, or wearing her hair how she wanted. It's harder than anything in the world she ever imagined she'd do.

And God, it _hurts_. It hurts her like nothing else ever has.

She doesn't know how to handle the hurt, so she lashes out. At her mother, her sister, people at school. Her mother cries to her to please, _please_ talk with her, but it doesn't happen. She doesn't want to talk. She wants to _scream._

For two years, she mourns with anger. 

And then she goes into her mother's room, and she starts to cry. She doesn't know how long it's been since she let the tears out, but now they won't stop.

Her mother holds her in silence. Her sister hears her and comes to wrap her arms around both of them.

She cries, and they cry, and when she's done, she talks. 

She mourns _with_ them, and it feels just a little better than being alone in her rage.

"I miss him so much," she says. "I hate him for leaving us."

Her mother smiles sadly, strokes her tear-stained cheek, and says, "I know." 

"He's watching over us, isn't he?" her sister asks. "That's what the priest said."

Their mother breathes deeply. She looks so tired, but it's less than it was. Just a bit. 

"I like to think so," she says. "Our guardian angel. Way up there."

"From the moon! Right? Just like Ady always talks about!" 

Tears wet their mother's eyes again, but she's still smiling. Just a bit. 

"A little further," she says. "Or maybe closer."

Ady looks out the window, and smiles, wonders if he's waving to her, just like she'd always promised she'd do for him.

**x**

She's seventeen when she falls in love, and eighteen when he breaks her heart. She walks home barefoot in the rain, breathes up at the sky, lets the water run down her face with the tears.

She almost smiles, because she knows she doesn't need him. She knows she's going to be okay. She knows her sister is going to be there for her when she gets back, like she always has been.

And she is. She hugs Ady, makes them both a _ridiculously_ huge ice cream sundae, and then they plan his demise until two in the morning, giggling loud enough to wake their poor mother more than once. 

"We could probably just key his car," she points out, and Ady snorts. 

"I don't know. I'm an adult now, I can get fined for that sort of shit." 

"I'll fuckin' do it, then. I'm above the law. Just a simple, innocent child. What're they gonna do to me? I'm adorable." She pounds her hand down as if holding a gavel and takes on a deeper voice. "Sir! Guilty for being a dick! And you, oh, Evey, you beautiful angel, are not. Could _never_ be guilty of anything but _beauty_." 

Ady squints at her, scrutinizing. "I mean...I guess you're not _hideous_ anymore."

That gets her smacked with a pillow. 

"Anymore! Fuck you! You're just jealous that I've been a saint since I was born." 

"I _absolutely_ remember otherwise. You know you used to bite me? Just, like, all the time?"

"And? Obviously you deserved it."

With a laugh, Ady leans back. She goes quiet, suddenly, and fiddles with the bracelet on her wrist. It's something she tends to do whenever she's thoughtful, and it's not hard to notice, especially for someone who spends so much time around her.

"What's wrong?" 

Ady takes a deep breath in through her nose, sighs it out. "I'm tired of hurting," she says. "I kind of want to try being happy for a change."

Her sister twiddles her thumbs, purses her lips, and smiles mischievously at her. "Well…" she says. "You know, not _all_ pain has to be bad." 

“That’s a...fuckin’ weird thing to say, but...go on."

She leans on the bed, grabs two fists of the blanket, and says, "You're eighteen now. You know what _that_ means?"

"That I'm supposed to know what I'm doing for the rest of my life? Taxes? What?" 

"No, stupid. It means you can take me to get a tattoo for _my_ early birthday present, because I don't need mom's permission anymore."

"Did you ever really need it to begin with? You sure got that piercing just fine." 

She sticks her tongue out, shows Ady her little blue barb. "And it's awesome. But the dude reeked and I'm pretty sure he was high on like five different things. Come _on_ , Ady." She pouts, clasping her hands together. "I've wanted to so long, you know that! I have my own money and everything. Come on, something real small. You can get one too! We can match! It'll totally make you feel better."

"Oh _will_ it?

"Maybe...because you love me, and being nice to me is its own reward, right? Oh come on, _please?_ " 

Ady looks at her, rolls her eyes, and smiles. "Mom's gonna kill us both if she finds out, but...you know I can't say no to that face, Evey."

Eve points two finger guns at her and clicks her tongue. "That's because it's adorable. Case fucking dismissed."

They get one half of a heart tattooed on their wrists, and hold them together to complete it when they're done. Their mom notices Eve's first, and as upset as she is, she can't help but smile when they put them beside one another. 

"It means she's stuck with me," Eve says, grabbing Ady and planting a big kiss on her cheek, making another little pouty face at their mother, the one that lets her get away with anything. "Stuck forever and ever." 

And Ady sighs, _so_ dramatically, like she hadn't already been in the first place, and like she doesn't think that sounds just fine either way.

Together in the past, the future, and everything in between.

**x**

When she's about to turn twenty, their mother gets sick. 

For several months, it’s hidden. Their mother goes to her appointments alone, and only when she starts to lose her hair from the treatments does she sit them down and tell them. 

Eve cries into Ady’s chest that night, falls asleep beside her, and Ady stares at the ceiling until late the next morning. 

She can’t believe this is happening _again._

They had fucking _promised._

Clearly promises meant _nothing_ in this world, because it was disgusting and cruel and took away the most pure, most innocent, most _needed._

“I can’t do this again,” is the first thing Eve says when she wakes, and Ady holds her a little closer. 

“I know,” she says. “We won’t have to, okay? She’s gonna fight this. _We_ will.”

“Promise,” Eve says, reaching her arm up, and Ady slides hers beside it, pressing the tattoos together. It’s become something they do every time, something only they share, a pinky-promise no one else has. 

“I do. I promise. You know I do.”

They end up moving. A new, experimental treatment accepts their mother's application, and they move into a one bedroom apartment in New York. They go with their mother to her next appointment, listen to the doctor while he tells her the prognosis. It’s not _good,_ but it isn’t bad. She's not getting worse, and they’re hopeful. This new treatment has shown nothing but positive results, and they think it'll work for her.

Considering their luck, Ady has learned to be careful. But she holds her mother's hand with one of her own, takes Eve's in the other, and hopes.

It will take months. Each treatment takes hours. Eve starts to go to school, tells Ady she wants to fight crime like on television, and Ady picks up a job to help pay the bills, but they're with their mother whenever they can be.

Ady’s just heading back from the hospital cafe with a coffee for herself and Eve while they wait when she misplaces her step, slips and jerks to the right to rebalance herself, spilling scalding hot liquid over her hand. 

“Shit!” she gasps, quickly putting the cups down on the nearest nurse’s station. “Goddamn!” 

“Oh, dear,” someone behind her says, and she shakes her hand, wincing. 

“Here, come here.” They nudge her forward, towards the nearest water fountain, clicks it on and takes her wrist to hold it under the stream of cool water. 

She hisses in pain and then finally looks up, eyes traveling up the white-sleeved arm up to the man beside her. 

“You ought to be more careful,” he says, lighthearted. “Coffee tends to be a bit hot. Not for skin, really.” 

“Oh,” she replies. It’s all that comes out. He laughs, and she feels her face flush hot, and she pulls her hand away, wiggling her fingers to test for real damage and then clearing her throat. “I’m good. Thanks. Doesn’t even really hurt.”

"Yes, I do believe you'll live. It's a good thing I was here to save you, isn't it?"

She giggles, glancing down at the tag clipped to the scrubs under his coat. 

“Dr. Whitly,” she says, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and then he checks his pager and grabs the cup he’d set down to help her. “I really have to be on my way. Try to keep the coffee _in_ the cup from now on, hmm? You’re far too pretty to end up hurt.”

He smiles, and oh, _shit._ She feels her stomach flip, and she tucks her hair behind her ear and huffs out a breath, and feels a little like she’s going to fall over again. Oh, no. She doesn’t like feelings. They’re _terrifying._

_Pretty?_ She’s... _pretty?_ She hadn’t even put on any make-up this morning. She’s in clothes that are completely oversized for comfort. 

But a man—not a boy, not like who she’s fallen for before—was not only noticing her, but calling her pretty? What kind of joke was this?

She can’t even get out another thank you. She can’t say anything at all, and soon he’s gone, off down the hall and into the elevator before she can move.

“Sure,” she finally says, slowly, and then nods. She’s not sure what just happened, but _sure_. 

Pretty. 

Ah, shit. Goddamn _feelings._

She’s smiling when she gets back to Eve, ready to tell her, and Eve frowns up at her.

“I thought you were getting coffee,” she says, and Ady looks down at her empty hands. She’d forgotten the damn coffee. How had she forgotten?

“Oh, man,” she says, slumping into the chair. “I think I fell in love.”

“That’s never a good thing,” Eve says, poking at a blemish on her cheek while looking at her mirror, and Ady leans back with a sigh.

“I know, right?”

“Still…” Eve turns to her, raising her eyebrows and grinning. “You should totally tell me everything.”

Ady ducks her head, bites her lip, and does.

It hadn't been much, but it makes her smile whenever she thinks about it for _weeks._ She’s never really been complimented so _politely,_ by someone so…

Mature, she thinks is the right word. Someone so much older, so much more...handsome than the stupid boys she’s fallen for before. 

Oh, God. She hasn’t fallen for him, right? She can’t possibly fall for someone she’s seen once. That’s ridiculous. Impossible.

And yet, she searches his name on the computer, and reads about all the good he's done, and falls further. She tries to run into him again at her mother’s treatments, roaming, grabbing coffees, going to the wrong floors.

Eve makes fun of her, in the loving way she does. She also _encourages_ it, and that's the very last thing Ady needs. She needs someone to tell her to _stop,_ because clearly her common sense isn't going to.

And then, as they're leaving one day, Ady suddenly gasps and turns around, and both their mother and Eve stare at her like she's crazy.

"That's him," she murmurs, her face stinging hot. "Oh, no. We should go the other—"

"I'm going to kill you," Eve tells her. "You've been totally freaking out over him for like a month and now you're gonna—? Uh-uh. No."

And then she waves her hand, and calls out, "Excuse me, _Doctor?"_

" _You're dead to me_ ," Ady hisses. 

"He's _looking._ Oh, ew, Ady, he's so old! Like _thirty_ at least!"

" _Excuse_ me," their mother murmurs, and Eve pats her head.

"Sorry, Mommy. You don't look a day over twenty-five. Ady, go say hi to the weird old dude, and tell him tomorrow's your birthday so he feels like has to be _extra_ nice, and then _voilà!_ I'm taking Mom to the car, and if you don't come back with a rich boyfriend, I'm gonna be really disappointed. Okay? Okay. Bye now." 

She wheels their mother off, and Ady curses. 

"That girl back there? Yeah, she really likes you," she hears Eve say, and oh, God, she's going to kill her. Being an only child sounds just _fine._

She can't turn around. She should _run._

And then she hears someone approach her, and that sweet voice she'd almost forgotten the sound of says, "How's your hand? No more coffee catastrophes?"

She swallows hard, and slowly turns to see that stupid man with his stupid grin looking at her.

"Yes," she says, and then shakes herself. "I mean, it's fine. N-no more, no, yeah, I've...I've been, uh…" 

Dr. Whitly chuckles, and Ady really looks him over, takes him in and feels her heart kick in her chest as she bites her lip.

"I take it...that was a friend?" he asks, gesturing, and Ady groans softly.

"My sister. She's crazy, I swear. Doesn't know anything." 

"Oh," Dr. Whitly says, putting his hands in his pockets. "That's a shame. I quite liked what she had to say. But if it was nothing…"

He _liked_ it? What the hell is _happening?_

"You're really—" Ady says, and only just stops herself. "Uh…" She struggles for a moment, and then says, "It's my birthday tomorrow."

He lights up at the information like it _matters,_ like _she_ matters. Like someone so important could really care about _her._

"Oh? Well, that's wonderful. How old?" 

"Twenty-one," she says, and straightens up. She's an adult. She can talk to other adults. Definitely. Of course she can. And she's not going to throw up, not even a little. 

"Ah," he murmurs, sighing as if reminiscing. "A milestone in independence. Congratulations. Will you be going out to celebrate?" 

She deflates. "Probably not."

"What? A young woman as beautiful as you with no one to have her first drink with?"

_Beautiful._ Oh, she's _smitten._

"That's an absolute shame," he goes on, watching her to gauge reactions. "A travesty, really."

"Take me?" she suddenly blurts out, and he laughs. "To—to drink, I mean! Not—damn. I'm, uh...uh...never mind, I—"

"I'd love to," he interrupts. "Take you. To drink. Of course." 

Her face is bright red, she's sure of it. "R...really?"

"Really. Though perhaps I should know your name…"

"Ady—ah, Adeline. You can call me Ady. If you want."

"Adeline," he says, and her legs feel a bit like they're going to give out beneath her.

"It suits you." He checks his pager as it beeps, and gestures down the hall. "I'm a _very_ busy man today. But tomorrow night I just so happen to be off at six. Almost like it was meant to be, isn't it? Here."

He takes a pen from his pocket, holding out his hand in a gesture for her to do the same, and she gives it to him without hesitation.

"This is my number," he says, writing it on her wrist, just beside the tattoo. "If you still fancy a drink, ring me around seven. We can meet somewhere close."

His hands are so warm. Lightly callused fingers that have saved lives. Her stomach is fluttering unlike she thinks it ever has, and she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Yeah," she says, airily. "Thank you, Doctor." 

"Martin," he replies, still smiling, and then he's gone.

She's pretty sure she's gone, too. Can't feel her own damn body anymore. 

Eve slaps the numbers on her wrist and calls herself a genius when she gets out to the car, and Ady doesn't feel that either, caught up in the memory of the doctor's gray-blue eyes and charming smile.

"Why would he want me?" she asks, and their mother weakly laughs.

"Why wouldn't he, my love?" she replies. "You're more than worth keeping."

**x**

She meets him outside the hotel they had discussed on the phone, and he looks her over in a way that makes something deep in her stir, something not even the boys she's loved before could make her feel. 

Special. She feels _special._ Someone older, a _doctor,_ who has the world at his fingertips and any woman he wants, is giving his attention to _her._

"Well aren't you just _stunning?_ " he asks, offering his arm, and she steps forward, dress gliding by her ankles. There's something bothering her eye, and she refuses to touch it because she spent two _hours_ trying to perfect her make-up for him, and it makes her eyelashes flutter up at him like she's trying to be coy.

Maybe she is. She never claimed to be _good_ at this whole 'dating men' thing.

Oh, wow. Is that what this is? A date? She hasn't been on one of those in a long time.

She shivers, taking his arm, and he laughs, leading her inside. 

She's never been poor, but this hotel is still so much more than anything her family had ever stayed at, even on vacation. Crystal chandeliers line the halls, glittering in the light, and she looks down at her dress, smiles and lifts the side up to watch it do the same.

Martin is looking at her again, a soft little smile on his face, and she flushes. 

"I couldn't bear taking you somewhere less," he says, settling them at the bar. "Not for a night so special."

"I'm not…" She looks around, and still seems underdressed compared to the rest of the people here. "I'm not totally sure I can afford _water_ here with my mom's bills."

"No need," he says, holding his hand up. "It's your birthday. My gift. Anything you want, I'll pick up the tab."

"...Really?"

"What kind of gentleman makes his date pay?"

She smiles, ducking her head. "Date?"

"If I should be so honored," he murmurs, taking one of her hands, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it. "Adeline." 

"Ah," she says, more of a groan than any sort of attempt at a reply, and he laughs, rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

"Did I make such an impression, that you were thinking of me?"

"Oh, yeah," she says. "You saved my hand, Doctor." 

He inspects her hand, squinting down at it, and nods. "Yes. It's healed quite nicely, though. No further damage. I am _quite_ the doctor. You're lucky I came about." 

She looks away, biting her lip. Her cheeks hurt from the smile she can't seem to get rid of. 

"I'd love to be your date," she says, and his eyes twinkle, a grin showing perfectly white teeth.

"Well then! I think that's just as much to celebrate as a birthday! I hope it's been a happy one, by the way. Or...that it can be now." He looks her over, almost shyly, and orders two shots from the bartender. 

"I'm not _technically_ twenty-one until eleven thirty," she says, and Martin tsks, slides the shot over to her anyways.

"Your secret's safe with me," he replies with a wink, and she's _smitten._ She takes it, and drinks, and Martin laughs at her as she chokes. 

"Oh, God," she manages, "that's _awful._ That's what I've been waiting for? Jesus…"

"It's not all bad," he says. "You can try a few. See which you like. Personally, I prefer a good cup of tea, but bourbon is good on occasion. Special ones, like now. Perhaps you'd like some wine? I can recommend the best."

"I'd like that," she says, but she's not sure any sort of high could be better than what she's feeling now.

After two shots and a glass of wine, she's dizzy. It doesn't feel bad, though. She tells Martin she can't see straight, and he laughs and tells her to take it easy. Tells her it's her night. Tells her she's so, _so_ pretty again. Converses with her more easily than anyone she's ever talked to. _Charms_ her until she can think of nothing else but _him._

Halfway through another glass, she kisses his cheek, and he startles.

"You're so...soft," she says, nuzzling against his arm. "Smell good. I like you." 

"I think you've had a bit much," he says, "but...I like you, too."

_"Really?"_ she coos, though she's pretty certain she already knew that, and he nods. 

"I'd be a fool otherwise. Here, drink some water. It'll help clear your head."

"I like wine," she says, and then spills the rest of the glass down the front of her dress. "Oh!" 

Martin grabs for napkins, dabbing at her. "Dear, I do believe you're drunk. That was for the best."

"But it was so _tasty,_ " she whines, taking some of the towels from him, and then her eyes land on his lips, and she wonders just how _they_ taste.

So she leans forward and finds out.

Martin doesn't startle _quite_ as hard as the first time, but he does pull away, and it confuses her. Why would he do this all and turn her down? Had she read him wrong? Misunderstood the fleeting glances down to her body while they talked? But she's so _pretty..._ how can he say no?

"Adeline," he says, so softly. "You're precious." 

"Don't you like me?" she asks, and he takes her hand again. 

"Of course. But I couldn't encourage this. You're intoxicated."

She smiles, and leans again, and murmurs into his ear, "I want you." 

"Oh," he says, and she touches his chin, grasping at his beard. 

"I feel so _good..._ can you? Would you? It's my birthday...Martin, you're so _nice…"_

Martin hums. He puts his finger under his chin, and finally kisses her back, soft and gentle. 

"Perhaps," he says. "It _is_ your birthday."

"Take me home," she says, grasping onto his arm. "Your home."

He bites his lip, and straightens his suit. He pays their tab, and then takes her hand to lead her outside.

It's hard to keep her hands off him in the taxi, but she's _fantastically_ drunk, easy for him to nudge away without even trying. Things are there one moment, gone the next, and back, and by the time they arrive wherever he's taken her, he has to pick her up and carry her out. 

I'm a dove," she murmurs, sticking her arms out, head hanging back, and he laughs, the sound of it vibrating in his chest. She wants to wake up to that in the morning, maybe _every_ morning.

"You're a what?"

"Flying," she says. "Always wanted to fly."

He takes her up some stairs, and when she opens her eyes again, he's laying her down in a bed, settling between her legs and kissing her neck.

"You've done things to me," he says. "Thinking of me all this time...I'm flattered. You're perfect."

She can't seem to speak, but she reacts positively to his touch, groaning and tangling her fingers in his silky black hair. 

"Please," she manages finally, and he kisses her mouth, slides his hands down to her hip and chuckles as she rocks up against him.

"You're very certain?" he asks, and she nods. 

"Please." It seems to be all she can say, but she means it. Even if things are blurry, she's more than certain. " _Yes."_

He pulls the strap of her dress aside, kissing her shoulder, and she tosses her head back, smiles and wraps her arms around him.

And she hasn't felt so happy in a long, long time.

**x**

She wakes somewhere dark. She can't tell, for a moment, if her eyes are open or closed, even as she blinks.

It takes a moment for her to remember. The hotel, the drinks, and Martin. Vaguely, but she remembers.

Sleeping with a near-stranger isn't something she hasn't done before, but it was still probably a mistake. And now...something else is wrong, now. More than the nausea, or the bile rising in her throat.

She can't move. She tries to stretch her legs out, and her bare feet hit something hard.

She's cold. She's _shivering._ She's naked, without a blanket, and when she raises her head, it knocks against another hard surface.

She's...inside something. Something small.

She presses out with her limbs, starts to breathe heavier, and thinks she's inside a trunk.

But...that doesn't make any sense. This must be a nightmare. It has to be, right? She's warm in Martin's bed, or maybe her own. Maybe the entire night had been a dream. 

She throws up, and gasps for air, and tastes wine on her tongue. 

This isn't a dream. 

Something is _wrong._

"Martin?" she calls out, and it sounds muted in her ears, like it only exists between these suffocatingly small walls, like there isn't a world outside she's been in before. She shoves at the sides, and whimpers, and realizes she's trapped.

"Martin? Martin, help!" 

Martin doesn't come. 

She's _alone._

She doesn't understand what's going on. She's sick again, and disgusted with the idea of being trapped with it, and she's confused.

Is this...is this a game? A prank? A joke? 

It has to be. Something Martin thought she might like. Something they'd discussed in her drunken stupor. Foreplay, a game, a kink, _anything._

She starts to cry, because he doesn't come.

And when she's out of tears, she's still here.

She starts to think she's going to be here forever, until finally she hears a thud on top of the box.

"Are you awake, little dove?" 

Her voice is hoarse from disuse as she manages, "M…Martin?"

"My love," he replies, and there's something about his voice that chills her to the bone. It's still sweet, but it's also...cold. Empty. 

"Why…why am I in here?" 

"Why else?" he asks, and there's a heavy creaking that makes her think he's leaning against the top. "Because I want to keep you."

The words are said so...simply. So matter-of-fact that she wonders, for a moment, if that's not a good enough answer.

"K…keep me? I...I...what?" Her only response is a little chuckle, and she whimpers. 

This can't be real, right? This is the sort of thing that happens in horror movies, not real life. This _can't be real life._ "It's…it's dark in here, can...can I come out?" 

"Oh, no," he says. "I'm sorry. That won't be possible. Not yet."

"Martin." Her voice cracks again, and she tries to be louder. "Let me out."

"Ssh, dove. In time." 

"But...but I threw up," she says. "I gotta pee, and it smells, and—I'm thirsty, and…I don't—"

Martin cuts her off. “My dear, you really _are_ complaining too much. And you were so quiet last night...so beautiful...I'd like you to go back to that."

Instead, she starts to cry. “I want to go home, Martin. Dr. Whitly, _please._ Please, I don’t like this game, I want to stop now! Please! Help! Please! Someone help!"

“Not a game, I assure you,” he says, and then opens the hatch. The light is so startling that while she knows she should lash out, she curls up, for just the briefest second as he reaches towards her.

“Let me help you.”

She tries to scream, but she can’t get it out fully before he shoves a wad of cloth into her mouth, forces it behind her teeth and then slaps a piece of tape over her lips.

“I do apologize,” he says, and then wraps a piece around her wrists, too. “I really can’t have you making that kind of noise when my son comes down. If you promise you’ll be silent later, I’ll take it out. Try to breathe slow, so you don’t panic. Though I suppose the bright side to that is, if you pass out, you don’t have to be afraid. And my, don’t you just look _terrified_ right now?”

She stares up at him with wide eyes. Son? He has a _son?_

"Ssh," he murmurs, stroking her cheek. "You're special. You're very special, Adeline. You're mine. You wanted to be, and you are. I'll come back soon, okay, little dove? After my family is asleep. Just relax until then."

Family.

He has a _family._

And he's put her in a box.

She doesn't even protest when the lid comes down, locking her in darkness once again. 

Cold and alone and _confused,_ she can only cry. 

**x**

The trunk opens three times more.

The first, Martin removes her gag, and frees her wrists. She's foolish enough to almost, almost believe he's letting her go.

He doesn't. He cups the back of her head and gives her water to drink, and she's so thirsty she couldn't give a damn what might be in it. 

He praises her, coos to her, kisses her forehead and strokes her hair. He calls her dove, and she doesn't like them anymore. She doesn't want to fly anymore, not ever. She doesn't want to go to the moon.

She just wants to go home.

He doesn't give her that luxury.

The second, she's confused. Not just from lack of sleep, or food, or the stuffy, stair air she's trapped in, or however long she's been in here, listening to Martin talk to her for hours at a time through the lid.

She's confused because it _isn't_ Martin.

It's a boy. A child. It's a _small_ child. He looks down at her and _screams,_ the most terrible, frightened, raw sound she's ever heard, and she startles, tries to cover her ears.

The screaming cuts off into muffled grunting, and she looks up again to find Martin with his arms wrapped around the boy, smothering his cries into a cloth until his struggles stop, until he goes limp in his arms and she thinks he's killed him.

"Martin!" she gasps, and he looks deranged, unhinged. His eyes are wild as he holds the boy to his chest, panting with exertion. 

"No," he says, so quietly. "No, no. _No._ Not yet. It wasn't…"

She makes the mistake of trying to sit up. She's weakened, wouldn't be able to help if she tried, but the sight of the child brings out something in here, a desperation to protect even when she can't protect herself.

With one hand, Martin reaches out and slams the trunk closed. It hits her head, and somehow, for a while, the darkness is more complete.

The third can't be long after. She still has a headache. 

Martin opens the trunk, presses a cloth to her face without saying a word, and she falls asleep. 

It's not unpleasant. She drifts, more peaceful than she's been in ages, ever since the night she was drunk. Stupidly, stupidly drunk. 

Waking is less easy. Her headache is worse, but as feeling returns to her limbs, she notices something. 

She's laying down. Flat across a vibrating surface, her legs are stretched out nearly all the way. She's not in the box anymore. She's free.

_Not free._ She hears metal clinking as she moves her legs, and knows she's only been moved from one prison to the next.

She becomes aware of the blanket over her, and recognizes the vibration as the engine of a car. 

She's in a car. A moving car.

Oh, God. She's…

She's never going home, is she? 

Suddenly, she hears a man, but it's not Martin. It's someone she's never heard before. He asks, “Is he...asleep?”

“Oh, yes.” That's Martin. No doubt. Sickly sweet voice that drips charm like _poison,_ one she'd willingly subjected herself to. “Drives have always knocked him right out. It’s for the best. I don’t want him thinking too much about her. Not yet.”

“Martin…”

“Yes?”

“If he’s _not_ ready…”

“We have the whole weekend. It’s not to be rushed. It won’t be. He can take all the time he needs.”

“You should have a back-up plan, is all I’m saying. He’s not—"

“ _Careful_ , John.”

“I-I—I just mean—"

“Look at him. Just...everything about him. He’s perfect. My perfect son. My _only_ son. I know he’ll make the right choice. He always has.”

“He could have ruined _everything._ ”

“ _Watch your lip._ He wasn’t supposed to see her, but...she _is_ special. I like her a lot. So she might be the _best_ one for him.”

She whimpers. She doesn’t mean to, but it makes them go quiet. She keeps very, very still, in hopes they don’t know she’s awake. 

The car doesn’t pull over, and she's left alone, but they don’t talk again, and soon she’s lulled into sleep again anyways.

She dreams of Eve, of her mother, just like she has every time she's managed sleep before, tears always running new down her cheeks. She wonders how they’ll get by without her, because she knows with a horrible certainty that she's not going to be okay.

Will _they_ be okay? She can hope so, but God, Eve has always been so emotional. And if their mother does end up dying, she’ll be left all alone. All alone, with half a heart on her wrist and a broken one in her chest, in a world cruel enough to take their father and then _her._

And it’s her own fault, isn’t it? She didn’t have to fall for Martin’s tricks. She didn’t have to accept the drinks, or ask to go home with him _._ But she had. Like an idiot, she _had,_ and her family will pay for it.

_She’s_ going to pay for it. 

The car is eventually stopped. The doors up front open and close, and she's left alone. She remembers somehow, _somehow_ managing to sit up, to bang on the window and struggle to see through frosted glass. She thinks she hears someone outside, and she screams louder, and just that exhausts her so much she has to lay down and sleep again.

The trunk opening wakes her fully. She curls into herself, and then starts to cry when the blanket is pulled down and away from her body. 

“Please—" she says, trying to cover herself. “Please no, it’s cold—”

“Oh, I know,” Martin murmurs, and shakes out a much thicker blanket. “Does this look better?”

She looks at him, shivering. She looks behind him, and sees nothing but trees.

This is where she's going to die, isn't it?

“I don’t want you freezing out here,” he says, and then lays it over her. For nothing. He just... _gives_ it to her.

Sounding only half as confused as she feels, she murmurs, “Th..thank you…?” and watches as he laughs.

“I do care about you, little dove. I’d bring you inside, but really, the cellar will be just as cold. I’ll run the heat for a bit up front before I leave. It’ll only be a few hours. You’ll be just fine. You’re not to die quite yet.”

_Yet_. And more tears start to fall.

Martin tsks, threading his fingers through her tangled hair. “Don’t cry. Come now. Let me warm you up.”

He stands up, rounding to the front of the car, and she hears keys jingling before the car rumbles to life. 

“There we go,” Martin says. “Perfect.”

And when he returns to her side, she whimpers, “Why me?”

Martin touches her cheek, and she flinches away. 

“My dove...it’s because you’re _you_ ,” he replies, and her breath catches. “You’re a beautiful young woman, but I’ve seen a lot of those. But your insistence to receive my affections...why, it made me feel like I haven’t in years. It was precious. It was only by chance that we met, but thereafter? That was all you. You pursued me _relentlessly._ All that talk about trying to find me...oh, I admire that. I still do! It caused me to act like I never have...unplanned, risky…oh, but it was worth it. You’re beautiful. And do you know what? You’ll be even more so, when you’re all opened up for us to see. I can't _wait_ to see inside you. To feel your heart in my hands…"

“Oh, _Jesus,”_ she groans, covering her mouth, and he steps to the side, lets her lean out to vomit bile into the snow. “Oh, God, oh, please, _Martin, please—”_

“Ssh,” he says, and something pricks her neck again before she’s even done heaving. She chokes on a gasp, and then starts to slump, and he catches her.

"My son is going to take your life," he murmurs into her ear, "and you're going to be grateful. You're going to be his first, but not his last."

“No. I have…” She blinks hard, tries to focus. “I have to...my sister…”

“Ssh, ssh, little dove." He clasps a second chain around her wrists, and then pats her head. "It’ll be morning soon. Just relax. It’ll come quicker while you’re asleep.”

He wraps her up in the blanket, and she hardly realizes it. She’s warm...such a nice feeling, through her veins, slowly edging her back into darkness. She’s a lot less scared now, at least.

“Sleep well,” Martin says, giving her a little peck on the forehead.

She thinks of her father. She thinks of his hugs, and how much he’d loved her, and smiles just a bit as the drug takes her far, far away.

**x**

It's useless. 

Her hands are numb as she tries to pull apart the chain, to free herself any way she can think of, but it, as predicted, does nothing. She can't twist herself in the right position to reach the one around her ankle. The drug keeps her weak, but she's not sure she could have managed it either way.

She's so _tired_. It's no longer a box, but it's just as claustrophobic, and she's just as trapped. She almost, _almost_ wishes it would all just end.

Almost. The thought of Eve keeps her alive. It keeps her struggling. It keeps her writhing her limbs and rubbing her legs together to keep warm, to not succumb to the cold before anything can be done.

The thought of her father and mother keeps her strong. She had promised him. Her mother was keeping her head held high through _cancer._

Ady can do this. There has to be _something_ she can do. 

She sleeps again when she can no longer fight away the lingering allure of what she'd been given, and she wakes to noise. 

It's not Martin. It's not even the other one, John. 

Instead, she's hearing tiny, frightened whimpers from the front.

"...Hello?" she whispers, and the noises cut off with a gasp.

She knows his name. Martin had hardly ever talked to her about anything else. 

Still, she's cautious. She's scared. The way Martin spoke about him makes her sure he hadn't known about all this before, but who knew how he felt about it now? What if he _wanted_ to kill her?

But she has to try. It might be her only hope.

"...Malcolm?" 

The whimpering starts again, and then turns into soft crying. 

"I won't hurt you," she says. She pulls the chain so it makes noise, trying to prove it, and the sobs get a little louder. "Hey…it's Malcolm, r-right? Please…please help me."

Finally, he speaks. It's so quiet she nearly misses it.

"I'm s- _sorry."_

Her heart aches. With the strength she's been trying to save up for an escape, she sits herself up just enough to see over the backseat.

The boy is nearly hidden from view, curled up on the floor of the passenger seat. 

Nearly. 

Their eyes meet, and Malcolm gasps, covers his face and ducks his head down.

"You're not real," he mumbles. "Just a dream. You're a dream. This is—this is all a dream." 

"I wish it was," she says, clutching at her blanket. "Malcolm…Malcolm, please. I'm cold. I'm so cold. I don't want to die."

"He tried to—" Malcolm says, and slams his head against the dashboard. "I don't want to, I don't _want to—_ "

He's holding a knife, and it's coated in blood. She sees it only now, because he takes it and stabs the tip into the palm of his hand, hissing in pain. 

"Wake up," he grits out, "wake up, _please wake up—"_

"Malcolm!"

He flinches. The knife drops, and he clutches his hand to his chest, staring at her.

She's never, ever seen a child look so afraid, and she knows with certainty now that Martin is forcing him into what he doesn't want.

"I'm…" he whispers. "I'm not supposed to talk to you. He says you're...y-you're bad." 

He takes a shivering breath, and asks, "Are you bad?"

"Malcolm," she says. She no longer only wants to save herself. "I don't...I don't think I am, no. My name is Adeline, Malcolm. Please. I...I need to go home. To my mom, my sister. Her name is Eve. She's beautiful. She wants to help people. And my mom...my mom is sick. She's really, really sick. She needs both of us. Okay? Because she doesn't have my dad anymore. My dad died when I was really young, so I have to be there for her. I _have_ to. So please...please help me. I know...I know you love your dad, don't you?"

"I don't know," Malcolm says. "I think—he just— _hurt_ me."

"He hurt you?" she asks. "Are you in pain?" 

He nods, fisting his hand, and taps his chest with it. "It hurts here," he says. "I'm scared."

"You don't have to be scared, Malcolm," she says. She's feeling stronger now, just a bit. She thinks this is a miracle. Malcolm is her chance. He's just an innocent boy. He doesn't want this anymore than she does.

"Daddy does bad things," he says. "I don't wanna be like Daddy. Okay?" 

"Okay," she says. "That's okay. You don't have to be like him. You can help me. We can go get help together. Does that sound good?"

"Wanna go home," he whimpers, and she smiles at him.

"So do I. And you know what? I think we can help each other. Okay? We can both go home. I just need you to help me."

Malcolm sniffles. He straightens up, just enough to confirm he's thinking about it.

And to her relief, he asks, "How?"

She laughs. She can't help it. If they can pull this off, if _she_ can, she can go home. Maybe Malcolm can steal the car keys, or a phone. Something. _Anything._

"First," she says, "I need you to get me free. Do you think you can try to do that?"

"It's loud," he says. "Ch-chains. Loud and bad." 

"I'll try to keep them quiet," she tells him. "Okay?"

He nods, slowly. He scoots himself onto the center console, watching her warily as if she might attack him.

He's smeared with blood, and she doesn't think it's his.

"I don't have Daddy's key," he says. "I can't go back out there."

"Where did your knife go?" 

Malcolm freezes. His breaths start to race, and he covers his eyes. 

"Not mine," he says. "Don't want it anymore, Dad, _please stop._ "

"No, no," she soothes, "it's okay. He's not here. He's not. It's just me. Can you focus for me? Please? Please, Malcolm. You have to focus. I need you to get his knife, okay? I think we might be able to pick the locks. Maybe. I don't know. This is kind of new to me. Can you get his knife?" 

He hesitates, and then nods again. He reaches back into the front seat, and holds the handle between two fingers like it's burning him as he gets into the back.

"Careful," she says, trying to make room for him as he steps over the seat, and then he sits down by her legs, whimpering.

"I'm sorry," he says, touching the chain. "I'm sorry. I don't know why—"

"It's him, not you," she says, and eyes his shaking hand. Maybe she doesn't want him putting a knife near her wrists just yet. "Try the lock down there, okay?"

He wipes his eyes, sniveling. He looks so _small_ that it _hurts_ her. "Wh-what do I do?"

"Um…" she says, trying to think. "Stick it into the lock part and wiggle it, I guess? Not totally sure, uh...just try. Carefully."

He does. He grunts as it cuts his finger, and she winces. 

" _Careful!"_

"I'm tryin'! My hands are sweaty!" He groans, wrapping an arm tight around his stomach. "And my tummy hurts. And my head. I think I might throw up." 

" _Please_ don't. Just keep trying, okay? Malcolm...if your dad comes for me again, he's going to kill me. I don't want to die, Malcolm. I'm really, really scared." 

His entire body shakes. She knows he's just as afraid. He flinches at something she doesn't hear, looking outside, and then sticks the blade into the lock again, working at it much more frantically than before.

"Be careful—" she says, and it's just as the blade slips out of the lock. It buries deep into her leg, and she gasps. 

Malcolm slams back, his eyes huge as he stares down at her, at the blood starting to ooze out around the metal.

"It's okay," she manages.

His hand is shaking. She can't remember his trembling being so violent before. He only stares, and then looks down at the dried blood on his hands, and then he starts to pant.

"Malcolm. Please. Take it out. Try again." 

"No," he mumbles. "No, no, no—Daddy, don't make me—please don't make me!"

"Malcolm—"

She reaches out to him, and he screams. He kicks his legs out, and his foot hits the knife, slicing it further into her and ripping it out in the same moment. The pain blinds her, knocks her onto her back again, and he starts to sob.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, no, _no, I'm sorry!"_

"Malcolm, please! Please, it's okay!" 

He shakes his head. She's not sure he even hears her. 

And then he starts scrambling back over the seat, and she shouts, "No! Don't leave me! Don't go! Malcolm, I don't want to die!" 

She grabs onto his ankle, desperately tries to pull him back, and he screams louder, kicks and flails until she has to let go.

"Malcolm!" she cries, and he slams his hands against the door, scrambles to open it and _runs,_ slamming it behind him.

Leaving her _alone._

" _Malcolm!"_

He doesn't come back. She gasps for air and then looks down at her leg, at the pool of blood spreading underneath it.

_No. No, no, no._ That was her only chance. He can't be gone. He _can't be gone._

She lets out a scream of her own, twists and turns and tries to reach down to the knife.

She _can't_. 

She can't fucking reach it.

She can't stop the bleeding, either.

The wound keeps weeping red, covering her and the trunk by now from her struggles, and then she starts to feel sick. 

She starts to feel _weak._

She starts to feel tired. So, so tired. More so than from the alcohol. More so than from the drug.

A deep, bone-deep exhaustion that terrifies her, because there's nothing she can do but let it overcome her.

When the trunk opens, she hardly hears Martin's voice. She hardly feels him cupping her cheeks, patting them, and only really comes back when the wound is roughly inspected, drawing a sharp, hoarse cry.

The two men are staring down at her when she looks up, her vision blurred.

"Save her," John says, and Martin socks him across the jaw without even _looking,_ knocking him to the ground. 

"No," Martin says. "No. She's done. Aren't you, little dove? And that's a real shame."

" _Fuck,"_ John coughs from below, where she can't see, and Martin ignores him. He only looks at Ady, finally offering a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"You're going to die," he says, and shuts the trunk. She thinks he's going to leave her there to bleed out until the doors up front open again. Martin threatens to smash the other man's head through the window if he says a word, and then it's quiet.

The car isn't in motion long. Before she knows it, the trunk is being opened again, and the chains are unlocked, and she's being hauled by four hands out and away from it.

God, there are so many stars. It's all she can see.

She's never seen so many stars. 

The moon has never seemed so close.

She could finally touch them, if she tried. She's sure of it.

Martin blocks her view, a horrible shadow against the beauty of the universe. He kisses her, and pets her hair, and tells her she's so, so special.

"I'm sorry we couldn't properly spend time together," he says. "I was looking forward to it. But know you'll be remembered. I may have finished it, but he doesn't have to know that. He won't _. He_ killed you, little dove. Bled you out just like I told you he would. And to be my son's first...to be what changes him... _who_ changes him...oh, that's an honor you'll never understand, and you're welcome for it. You've fufilled your purpose, little dove. Don't think your death will have been in vain."

And then she's falling. Splashing down into water, and sinking.

And sinking.

It doesn't hurt, though she thinks it should. 

Nothing hurts. 

She sees Eve smiling, feels her mother kiss her head, feels her father's arms wrapped safe around her. 

The moonlight goes, replaced with nothing.

But that's okay. She's warmer than she's been in a long time. 

It's quiet, and she's happy.


	23. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me! Sorry for the little wait. I'm still so very excited about the future of this fic 👀 
> 
> TW! as can be expected. What I wrote was filmed in 15/16 is the main subject of this chapter...as well as maybe what I didn't write was filmed. So TW for sexual assault, though nothing is described. Also, for Malcolm still not having a good time. But Gil's there :'3

It's not what she thought it would be. 

Of everything she expects to see as the video begins, Bright's bloody, beaten, broken body, slumped unconscious on the floor in that impossibly large puddle of blood they'd found…

It isn’t one of them.

It could never, _ever_ have been one of them.

All that blood...it can't all be his. It can't be.

Oh, God...

Had all of it been his? 

Gil chokes behind her, and that hurts. Powell gasps and _whimpers,_ and somehow that hurts more. 

_“Look at your little boy, Martin,”_ John Watkins murmurs behind the camera. _“I’m almost sorry it had to come to this. I know it’s not what you wanted, but it’s what he needed. This was all for you. For God. For him, Martin. For Malcolm. I promise. He’ll be in good hands. I’ll take care of him like you couldn’t. And you’re going to see that now. Proof, Martin. Proof that I did what you never could. If you were smarter, you'd be proud of me."_

He comes out into view, and heads over to Bright. And nothing, _nothing_ hurts as badly as the whimpers Bright starts letting out when Watkins forces him awake, starts cooing to him in a way that makes her skin crawl.

A way that makes her wonder if she doesn't know exactly what Gil had been trying to say to her before. 

She wants to pause it. 

But she can only stare, heart pounding, as the video goes on.

As Watkins tells Bright he's going to kill the girl. 

As he zooms in on Bright's face, forces him to look up, makes him _sob._

" _Say hi!"_

" _H-h-hi—"_

_Christ_. The pain in his eyes, the _fear,_ is unlike anything she's seen before. 

Nineteen days.

John had shattered his soul to look like _this_ in just nineteen days.

_"Oh, no. Don't cover your pretty face. You look good on camera, little Malcolm."_

“This—” Gil says, brokenly, “this is—stop. Swanson, _stop._ ”

Her fingers are frozen around the remote.

She can only stare at the television screen. She can only watch. 

_“Tell him you’re sorry.”_

_“S-sorry…”_

_“Louder!”_

_“I’m sorry!”_

So much blood...he's covered in it…John is drawing _more..._

_"What's your fault, hmm?"_

_"Everything."_

Watkins is kissing his head, stroking his jaw—

"I said stop it!" Gil hisses, right beside her, and Colette flinches, blankly watching as he snatches the remote from her hand and stops the video.

"All of you, _get out!_ " Gil shouts, and the agents slowly obey, leaving only Dani and JT, frozen by the table.

It's so quiet. Bright's looking into the lens, straight through to her. His face black and blue, bloodied, his eyes more tortured than his physical body.

"I didn't know…" she starts. 

"I told you to stop," Gil says. "I told you.”

"I couldn't have known," she insists. "This isn't—I didn't think—"

Gil holds his hand out, and it silences her.

"You wanted proof," he says. His hand is trembling, and he clenches it into a tight fist. "Is that enough? Is all of this enough? He was terrified. He was on the floor _begging_ you to stop, and you _arrested_ him." 

The handcuffs. He'd sobbed at the very idea, because he'd been chained to the floor for nearly a month. 

Or—or maybe—

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No, there has to—this is one day. One. Just—do your job and play the tape!"

"I don't—" Gil breathes out. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears. “I don’t think I _can._ ”

Colette doesn’t do it to hurt him. She’s not sure it’s not just to hurt _herself._ But she reaches out, manually pressing the button on the tape player.

Gil _whimpers._ It sounds more like it should come from Bright than him.

_“Aww, you’re nervous. Camera shy, even. That’s fine! I mean, just imagine how many people are going to see this.”_

“I can’t—” Gil says, turning around, bracing himself against the table. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tarmel says. “Let...let _me,_ I can—”

_“No._ I have to, I just...fuck…”

_“Something you want to say to her? Hmm? Or to Mommy? Or to Gil? How about you tell them what we’re going to do together? They should be proud.”_

“That doesn’t mean _shit all,”_ Tarmel hisses to her. “He’s not willing. Look at him. That...that’s not willing.”

But Colette hadn’t been thinking that at all. 

She isn’t seeing this as how to take Bright down anymore.

She’s seeing it just how it is. 

Just how Bright’s _already_ been taken down, by Watkins.

_“You’re a little too pretty. Gonna be a problem, looking at you all the time. It already is. Just wanna…”_

“Oh, God,” Powell mumbles. “Oh, Malcolm.” 

Watkins keeps going. He tries, undoubtedly, to _kiss_ Bright, and crushes his injured hand in his own when Bright protests.

The _scream_ Bright lets out...

Christ, Colette is never going to sleep again.

_“You’ve been doing good. You told me yesterday you were ready to make it better. This is how! This is your chance. Come on.”_

Yesterday. This is one video. One day. One _single day_ out of _nineteen._

_“I can’t! I c-can’t. Please. Please? Please, I’ll...I’ll d-do anything, please.”_

Watkins tortures him. Threatens him. Taunts him. Laughs at him.

Watkins _assaults_ him, and that’s when she has to look away.

_“S-stop! Stop! No! P-please—let go! I—I can’t—breathe—”_

She hears JT's curse, and Gil's mumbled _oh, God_ , and Dani's sob. 

She hears Malcolm's screaming. His pleading. His desperation. 

His _no._

He says no. 

After everything, he still says _no._

Colette doesn’t think she’s ever been so wrong about anything in her entire life. 

And then, Watkins beats the girl. Taunts Malcolm more.

_Chokes him._ He chokes Bright until he stops moving, until when he finally pulls back, Bright doesn't breathe.

For _forty-seven seconds,_ Malcolm doesn't breathe, and neither does she, only able to watch as Watkins frantically gives CPR, swearing under his breath and _praying._

_"Come back, come back—Malcolm, you have to come back to me—"_

One of them gags behind her. She can taste bile rising in her own throat, stinging the back of her tongue.

Bright gasps. He _breathes_ , and Watkins cradles him to his chest, kissing over his face and calling him _his miracle._

" _I thought I killed you. It's okay. You're okay, little Malcolm. I'm sorry. You made me mad, but it's okay. We'll try again. Just breathe."_

Gil stops the video again. Colette doesn't need to hear any more. She wishes she didn't hear any of it.

“Get out,” he tells her. His voice is choked.

She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t think she _can,_ wonders if she’d even be able to form the words to say anything at all.

She’s not paying attention. She hits someone, nearly knocks them and herself to the floor, and leans against the wall.

Papers flutter to the floor, and Dr. Tanaka looks up at her with a tear-stained face. 

Colette doesn’t think she has to ask, but she does anyways, manages to get out, “DNA?” 

Dr. Tanaka sniffles, picking up the files she’d dropped, and clutches them to her chest. “His,” she says. “The blood was his and Miller’s. Most of it was his. And…”

“And?” 

“Not for you,” Dr. Tanaka says, pushing past her. “It’s not for you to know.” 

She bites her lip, closes her eyes. “He was assaulted, wasn’t he?” 

Dr. Tanaka stops, only briefly. “I don’t know that,” she says. “I’m not a doctor. I didn't examine a body. And it’s _not_ for you to know. You don’t care about him. You never did. Don’t pretend you’d suddenly care now.”

Colette says nothing. Instead, she shuts herself into the bathroom and braces herself on the sink. 

_“You’re mine. You’re mine. Can’t stop thinking about you—such a pretty mouth—gonna take it just like this, with my—”_

Water drips down onto her hand, but it’s not from the faucet. She touches her face, not sure when she started crying, and then turns, slamming open the stall and dropping to her knees to heave into the toilet.

Oh, Bright. _Malcolm._

That’s not what she wanted. _This isn’t._

It isn’t what she’d thought it be. How could she ever have known?

She thinks about how small and terrified Bright had looked, on the floor while Colette demanded him to hand over the footage. On the floor while Colette had _arrested_ him. In Gil’s arms in the car, curled into him on the way there, unconscious on the way back.

So fucking _small_ in Gil’s arms. 

She’d tormented him almost as much as Watkins had. She’d sprayed water in his face in a snowstorm, threatened him, she—

She throws up again, until it’s nothing but bile, and then sits back against the wall, swiping a shaking hand over her mouth.

It’s not what she thought. 

Bright wasn’t a partner. 

Bright was a victim, as much as the girl, as much as any of the rest of them.

How the _fuck_ can she leave this room?

She’d hurt him. 

Watkins had—

Watkins had probably—

And she’d been _harassing him._

Bright is...he’s someone she had something with. Someone who broke her heart, who scared the hell out of her and _hurt_ her.

But he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve _that._

She’d wanted him to suffer, to pay for what he’d done. 

But not like this. God, she’d never wanted this. She’s sick for wanting it at all, isn’t she? All this time trying to make him pay...when she promised to ruin him, watched him nearly cry because of it...

This is just what's become of it.

**x**

"Gil?"

Gil wets his lips, finally looking up. Dani stands beside him as he sits at the conference table, shivering, his hands clasped together.

"I need to see him," he says slowly, and then rubs his chin and shakes his head. “No. How—how can I—”

He isn’t someone to show weakness. He does his best to never, ever do that, _especially_ not in front of the people who count on him to keep it together.

But he can’t stop himself this time from dropping his head to the table, from letting out a stifled sob. 

“How can I face him?” he asks, as Dani gently touches his shoulder. “How the hell am I supposed to—? That—he—that happened because I wasn’t there. Because I couldn’t save him.”

“Stop it,” Dani says. She’s choked up, strained, and he’d nearly forgotten just how hurt they _all_ are by this, is so used to being the only one to care for Bright since…

_Jackie. Jesus, Jackie…_

“You fucking stop that, Gil. I can’t—I can’t take anymore guilt about this, okay? I can’t. I just— _can’t._ I’m in so much pain, Gil. It hurts. And it’s not even half of what Bright felt in that video, let alone the rest of the time. Okay? I can’t—you can’t do that. Because if it’s your fault, it’s ours, too, and I can’t handle that. Please. Not now. I just...I want to see him, we should—”

“Guys?"

Dani turns, and Gil raises his head. JT's eyes are on the ground. 

"What?" 

JT breathes in deeply, and finally looks up at them. 

"It's not...done," he says.

Gil blinks. He processes, just for a moment, and then says, “What?”

JT clicks the remote, and the time remaining shows on the screen.

_Twenty-six minutes._

There's still _half an hour_ of footage on the tape.

“I thought—” Dani starts, and then raises her hands and shakes her head. “No, no, no. I don’t know—I can’t watch whatever—I can’t do that.” 

“Find Swanson,” Gil tells her. “Please. Get her to lift Bright’s arrest.” 

She nods. Takes one long, last look at the television, at Watkins hovering over Bright’s body, and then leaves.

Gil can't watch. He _can't._ He says it, twice more.

“You don’t have to,” JT says. “Let me. Please.”

Gil can’t fucking do that, either. He can’t leave JT to deal with whatever’s on here by himself. 

But he can’t watch this.

He has to. 

He _does._

And when it ends, twenty-six minutes, thirteen seconds later, the room is silent.

Gil thinks back to when Jackie told him not to take this job, and for the first time wishes he’d listened to her.

**x**

Tears in her eyes, Dani pushes her way into the bathroom, meaning only to splash water on her face and get herself together before finding Colette, and doesn’t expect to find that exact agent slumped on the floor in one of the two open stalls, face buried in her hands. 

  
“Swanson?” she says slowly, startled, and she wipes her eyes and looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

She’s been...crying. She doesn’t even look like she _cares_ that Dani’s seeing her like this. And that’s _not_ a reaction Colette would normally be given. She’s the kind of person that, like Dani, would rather do anything than show weakness in front of people that could use it against her.

But not here. Here, Colette is letting her see something that makes Dani’s chest hurt, even with her hatred for the woman that had shown Bright’s pain to a room full of men and women who had no right seeing it. 

“What do you want from me?” Colette asks at last, voice hoarse, and Dani frowns.

“You to lift Bright’s arrest, for one,” she says. 

“On my list,” Colette responds, but doesn’t move to do so. Dani sighs impatiently, and then takes a few steps closer. 

“You hurt him,” she says. “You can’t stay in here crying for yourself when it’s your own damn fault. You broadcasted his torture to the precinct. What the hell did you think would be on there? Him and Watkins talking about their evil plans together?”

“Stop.” Colette shifts, reaching into her pocket to bring her phone out, and then sniffles. Dani wonders if she’s waiting to call so no one knows she’s been feeling emotions like an actual real live human for once in her life.

“I don’t...I don’t know what I thought,” she goes on. “I don’t. Something. Not that. Fuck, Powell, I didn’t think it’d be that. I’m not a monster.”

“You’ve been acting like one,” Dani says, and then suddenly Colette is tearing up again, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes and gasping for air. 

“Shit…” Dani leans against the opposite side of the stall, sliding down it to crouch across from her. “Look, I didn’t mean…”

“You meant it,” Colette says, “and...you’re right. I hate that you’re right, but you are.”

“I’ve never understood why you hate him so much. Hell...the way you were talking...you want to see him in jail forever.”

“I hate him,” Colette hisses, and then sobs again. “I didn’t want him tortured. I didn’t want him _raped._ ”

Dani breathes out, closing her eyes, coming to terms with the facts she doesn’t want. She doesn’t know what was on the rest of the video, but she doesn’t need to. There were eighteen days otherwise. The way Watkins spoke to him, _kissed_ him with a familiarity of having done it plenty of times before…

She’d been sleeping in his bed while he’d been being tortured. She’d been fighting other criminals, solving other cases, while Watkins had been hurting him. Her friend. Her _best_ friend. Her _only_ friend. 

She’d failed him. They all had.

Shaking herself, she asks, “So jail would have been better? You don’t know what happens there? What would you have done, sent him to Max? Gen? He would have been abused there, too, Swanson, unless you threw him in solitary, and you damn well know it!”

“I don’t—” Colette chokes, slamming her elbow back against the wall and rattling it, wincing from the pain. “I wanted him to suffer, I—”

“He did,” Dani says, and somehow feels awful with Colette finally, fully starts to cry, shoulders shaking. 

“He hurt me,” Colette manages. She sounds... _small,_ almost helpless, for the first time ever. “I wanted to hurt him back. I—I _thought_ I did. Maybe I didn’t. Fuck, I—I don’t think I did, ‘cause I’ve never felt worse.”

It’s what she deserves. Dani shouldn’t be feeling _sorry_ for her of all things. But she looks so absolutely _pathetic_...it’s hard not to. 

“You shouldn’t feel good,” she says, adjusting her footing as her knees start to ache. “But you didn’t know what was on it.”

“I didn’t know,” Colette says. “I didn’t. I didn’t know.” 

“Gil tried to tell you. I heard him.” 

“I _know._ ”

“But you don’t listen to men, especially not when they’re telling you what to do.” 

Colette looks up at her and laughs. “Figured me out _real_ fast, huh?”

“It’s easier than you think,” Dani says, gesturing to the phone. “You need to call. Bright’s suffering. The last thing he needs is to be confined to another room by force.”

“Yeah,” Colette says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I know. God, I know. There—I feel _sick._ That’s not what I wanted. I don’t know...what I’ve ever wanted, then.” She dials and pulls it up to her ear, shaking her head. “Yeah. Swanson. Acquit Malcolm Bright. I was…”

She looks at Dani, and Dani tilts her head.

“I was wrong,” she continues, and Dani is genuinely surprised. “I’ll answer any questions about the case privately. Thank you.”

She hangs up, and Dani nods, just once. 

“I’m sorry,” Colette says, knowing it doesn’t make it better.

But Dani nods again, because she hadn’t expected it to be said in the first place, not ever. 

And she knows what it feels like to have her apology mean nothing. 

She’ll never say it enough to Bright, after this, but it’s not going to change a goddamn thing.

**x**

It's after his second round of painful, gut-wrenching dry-heaves that Malcolm starts gulping down water from the sink just to have something in his stomach to come up the next time. It's halfway through the fourth before a nurse finally finds him doubled over the toilet, and she comes back with an injection for his IV that she says is for nausea.

He would laugh, if he wasn't almost too exhausted to breathe. No medicine can help what he's feeling, and he tries to tell her that. It comes out garbled, his mouth pressed against the arm that's draped over the seat, but she wouldn't understand anyway.

None of them would. 

They would see, but they wouldn't understand. 

They would all see. Gil, JT, _Dani—_

He heaves again, and she tries to stroke his hair. She has a soft, kind voice, but Malcolm still tells her to get the hell away from him. Or at least, he thinks he does. He can’t hear any words come out, but his flailing arm successfully makes her pull away, and that's what matters. 

He doesn't want anyone to ever touch him again. Not _ever._ Not even Gil. 

Maybe Gil. Maybe Dani.

No.

They're going to see. They're never going to want to _look_ at him again, let alone touch.

They'll be embarrassed by him. They'll be _ashamed_ by him. JT will never think he's strong. Dani will never think he's worthy. Gil will never think he's _okay_. 

And he doesn't think he will be, so maybe that's fitting. 

God...if Ainsley saw...his _mother…_

_Martin._

He heaves again, and this time it hurts enough that things go fuzzy and shadowed. He drifts out of it, into something else, and when he comes back fully, he's in bed again. The IV is hooked up to him, but it’s only saline. He supposes he needs that. That and...

His stomach growls, and it's a feeling so fucking foriegn it makes him flinch. He touches it, and scowls, wants to beat at it with his fist when it makes the noise again. 

He doesn't want to eat. It's just going to make him _sick._ He'll never eat again, he—

_‘Good.’_

Malcolm whips his head to the right, and stares wide-eyed at _John_ , sharpening his hunting knife in the chair beside the bed.

_‘You haven't been good enough to eat, have you, little Malcolm?’_

Malcolm's heart flips in his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, and cries out in despair when John isn't gone.

He's there.

But he _can't be there._ That's not possible, because—

"I killed you," Malcolm whispers, and John smiles at him. It's disgusting. It's fucking horrific. It's the same smile he'd given him the night he kidnapped him. The same smile he'd given every time he touched him, and when he—

_‘Did you?’_

Malcolm starts to pant, shaking his head. 

He _killed_ John. He _remembers._ He remembers having no choice but to plunge the knife into John’s chest, to save the man that _ruined_ him, to save _himself._ He remembers falling back, his eyes up to the sky, and then nothing else. 

“I k-killed…no. You’re not…” He swallows hard, covers his eyes. “Y-you’re not real.”

_‘No, little Malcolm._ This _isn’t. You’re still with me.'_

Malcolm laughs. Fucking bullshit. He'd just gone through this with Gil. _This is real._ This is real. He believes Gil more than _John._ Gil is—where is Gil? Why isn't Gil with him anymore? He knows his mother was here...remembers her saying something about them being back in New York now and that Gil had to work now but would be back. That they...had to stay outside because...he was…

That's right. Colette had arrested him. He was stuck here. Trapped again. Again and again and again…

But not in the cellar. Not there. He can't be there anymore. Gil told him. Gil is real. 

He shakes his head again, and scratches at his arm—

And hears chains clinking. 

He freezes. John tosses his head back and cackles, and Malcolm dares to look down at his wrists.

Chained. Rusty, bloodied cuffs around them.

"No," he says. "Gil—Ains— _Momma!"_

_'Shush, you little waste of air,_ ' John says, hovering over him. _'Here. Let me help you.’_

John grabs his throat, squeezes hard enough to cut his breaths off, and God, it feels _real._ Too real. It feels horribly, awfully, terrifyingly real, and Malcolm can't even scream. He tries reaching up, and the chains yank his hands back down, pin them to his sides, rattle in his ears.

He remembers her. The Girl. Her name...her name was…

He just knows she was there. In the car, with him. He knows he killed her. He _knows._

He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to—please, please, _someone help me—_

And then John is gone, replaced by an unfamiliar police officer that shakes Malcolm's shoulders and tells him to stop screaming.

Malcolm shuts his mouth. He hadn't realized he _could_ scream again, let alone that he _was._ He frantically looks around, and finds John behind the officer, brandishing the knife and grinning.

"Look—" Malcolm says, and then cries out as John shoves the knife through the man's skull, as blood spatters warm over Malcolm's face and—

"You need to relax," the officer says, and Malcolm blinks hard. He wipes at his face with a shaking hand, and it comes back clean. No blood...not dead...no _chains_. 

"What are you staring at?" 

Malcolm blinks again, clenching and unclenching his hand, and then looks up at the man. "I...I need to go. A-away, I need—"

"Real funny. Here." He grabs the remote off the hook on the wall, and tosses it against Malcolm's chest. Malcolm gasps in pain, and John hums his pride, knife glinting in the light.

"Watch the TV or something, huh? Relax."

"No." Malcolm says, eyes still on John. "I have to go _now._ Please.Gil? I want Gil."

‘ _He’s not here, little boy,_ ’ John murmurs, taking a step closer. _‘It’s still just me. It’ll_ always _just be me.’_

"You're not going _anywhere._ And if you try, I'm gonna strap you to that bed. Do you understand, _Whitly?”_

‘ _Little Malcolm Whitly,_ ’ John sings, coming ever closer, and Malcolm holds his hands over his ears, shaking his head.

“No...no, no, no, _please._ Please don’t.”

“Then shut your damn mouth!”

_‘That’s not good enough! Cover it!’_

Malcolm covers his mouth with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut, and sobs against them. He wants Gil. Please, he just wants—

John slams him down against the bed again, grabbing his cheeks with bloody fingers. 

‘ _Filthy little whore,_ ’ he says. ‘ _You know he’ll never want you again. Not after I made you mine. Oh, imagine...he's watching it right now. Maybe he's already seen. You would have come right in my hand if I'd kept going, my beloved, isn't that right? You pathetic little fuck. Face it, little one. You're nothing. You're a dirty little—'_

"Help m—" Malcolm shouts, and John shoves his fingers down his throat, chokes him, slamming his other hand down to the bed.

_'Pretty little mouth—oh, little one—'_

" _Stop!"_

Malcolm jerks upright, gasping and coughing, and this time John isn't in the room at all. Instead, the officer is beside him, strapping one wrist to the bed, and at the door, the person who’d shouted, is—

"Gil!" he wails, unable to help it, his voice shaking as violently as the rest of him. "Gil! H-help! Help me!"

"I said _stop,"_ Gil says, approaching them, and the officer steps back. "Lieutenant Arroyo, Sixteenth Precinct. Malcolm Bright's been acquitted on all counts! Don’t you listen to your goddamn radio? And you were to keep him in this room, _not_ restrain him."

"He's fucking crazy," the officer says. "It was in my defense."

"You best get out. Now." 

The officer snorts, getting too close to Gil as he slips by, and Gil doesn't break eye-contact with him until he's gone.

Malcolm can't undo the restraint, the splint preventing it, and he whimpers, slapping at it.

"Hey, kid, I got it," Gil murmurs, carefully getting his wrist free, and Malcolm grabs for his hand, pulls it towards his cheek and then—

And then stops. 

He stops, seeing the look on Gil's face. The way Gil is gazing down, not at him.

And he remembers. 

He doesn't know how he could have, even briefly, forgotten.

Gil knows.

Gil _saw._

And now Gil will never love him again. 

Malcolm lets go of Gil's hand like it's burned him, and then gags and retches. There's nothing in his stomach, so it's nothing more than dry-heaving, but it _hurts,_ rips a cry from his raw throat. 

"Malcolm…"

"No—" Malcolm chokes. " _No._ Get—g-g—get away, don't—"

"No, God, kid, don't do that—don't do this to me, okay, just hold on, please—" He reaches out, and Malcolm screeches in protest, shaking his head.

"Get _away!"_

Gil staggers back, tucking both hands under his arms, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Malcolm can't do this. He _can't._ He can't. Gil saw. Gil saw. Gil fucking _saw it._

"Oh, my G- _God,"_ he gasps, pressing the blanket to his face. "Oh, God...oh, no, no, n-no…"

"Malcolm, please," Gil _begs_ him, sitting down in the chair John had been in. "Please. Let me...just…"

Malcolm reaches up, pulls the blanket over his head, and rolls onto his other side, facing away from him. "Please...please don't."

"God, Malcolm…don't—"

_"Bright._ " He doesn't ever want to be called Malcolm again. All he can hear is John _cooing_ it in his ear, every single time. Little Malcolm. Little Malcolm. _My Malcolm._

He flinches, and Gil murmurs, "Okay. Bright."

The way he doesn't question it...God, Malcolm can't remember everything that had been on the video, everything John had said to him. He'd been so out of it, so feverish and sick. He knows what _wasn't_ on there. Any sort of fucking strength, any sort of bravery or _worth._

' _Pathetic,'_ John says in his ear, and Malcolm gasps, jerks the blanket down to look around, but he isn't there. 

He _isn't here_. John isn't here. Gil is. 

Gil is, and he shouldn't be. Malcolm should be alone.

Malcolm should have rotted in the cellar, if he isn't still there. 

"Bright," Gil tries again. "You don't have to talk to me. But I want you—I want you to know that I want to listen if you do. Okay?" 

"You saw," is all Malcolm can manage to get out. 

He hears Gil breathe in deeply through his nose. 

"Yes," Gil replies, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, feels tears seeping through his lids and down his cheeks.

"I'm—" Malcolm starts, and then sobs. "I'm _sorry_."

Gil is quiet. Malcolm doesn't know _why,_ only feels _worse,_ until Gil says, " _What?_ " 

"I'm s-sorry, Gil," he whimpers. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry, don't—"

"Mal—B-Bright, my God—why are you apologizing to me? Do you—do you think you did something wrong?"

Malcolm curls into himself. "You saw. You saw. I c-couldn't...couldn't save her, I...I let him...I _let him…"_

" _Kid..._ Jesus. Is that what you think?" 

Malcolm doesn't answer. He _knows_ that's what happened. Biology be fucking damned, he'd somehow let John Watkins get him hard in front of the woman he was about to be forced to murder. That didn't—it just didn't make _sense._ His body shouldn't have, in any possible way, reacted like that. Not in that situation. Not unless—

Not unless he wanted it. Somewhere, deep inside. Not unless, somehow, somewhere, he wasn't as upset about the girl in front of him as he thought he was. 

_Filthy little whore._

And Gil had _seen._ Maybe they _all_ had. He won't ever be able to look at them again—

"Bright," Gil says. "Bright, you didn't _let_ him do anything. You were—kid...you were abused." 

Malcolm tries. He tries to ask _how_ he could possibly have reacted to something so awful, how Gil can even look at him, how he can _be_ here, beside his disgusting, disappointment of a not-son.

Instead, all that comes out is, "You saw."

Gil hesitates. Maybe that hurts worse than anything. And then he says, "I saw you being brave, Bright."

That startles him so much he rolls back over, stares at Gil for as long as he can bear before squeezing his eyes shut again. "...B...brave?"

"You're so fuckin' brave, kid," Gil says. "Braver than anyone I've ever known. You did save that girl. Don't you remember? Jasmine Miller. You got out of bed, and you saved her."

For some reason, it hadn't been in Malcolm's mind. 

"She's going to go home because of you," Gil says. "I heard she has a dog. Sundance. Mal—Bright, you're the _only_ reason she's going home. You saved her life."

For some reason, it isn't _possible._ If Malcolm can come to terms with killing her as he'd thought this entire time, why can't he with saving her? 

He's saved other people. It isn't new.

But he will never save enough, will he? Not ever. Not _ever._ That's why it brings no relief.

Maybe he saved her. But he didn't save The Girl. He couldn't save himself. 

Gil is talking again, and Malcolm has to force himself to listen. 

"What you went through...what he did to you…oh, kid. I love you so much. I'm so sorry. I'm so—" 

He cuts off with a quiet, choked sob. "Malcolm, I'm so _sorry._ I should have—I should have tried harder. I should have made your father talk, I should have done _something…I'm_ the one that needs to apologize. Not you. Never, ever you. This is my fault. _Mine._ You're here because of me. Look what I've done to you."

_'He's right_ ,' John says, rounding the bed. _'He led you to me. And I thank him for it. Tell him that, won't you? We had such a good time together...all because of him.'_

"St-stop," Malcolm mumbles, and shakes his head. “Stop...G-Gil, it’s...n-not...it’s _mine…_ if…”

If he hadn’t been so stupid. If he’d just called for backup. If he’d just answered Gil’s call. If he’d stayed with Shannon, saved his life. If he’d just remained in the house. 

If he hadn’t wanted answers more than he wanted to live. If he wasn’t some sort of sick freak who _wanted_ this to happen. Wanted John to torture him, wanted his hands over him, all over him, never ever _gone—_

He whimpers. Gil takes his hand.

“Bright...talk to me. Please.”

“Can’t,” Malcolm says. He can’t. He just...can’t. "He just…it w-was…"

"Not nothing," Gil says. "That was not _nothing_. It's okay to feel, Bright. You _know_ it's okay. You have to know. I want to help you through this, okay? I want to be here for you. Please don't shut me out. It was...it was traumatic, it—"

"Was just a _touch_ ," Malcolm chokes out, and Gil's breath hitches. It sounds...odd. Not a reaction he'd expected. 

"R...right?" he asks, looking back at him.

Gil smiles weakly at him, and nods. 

Malcolm is relieved. He'd almost thought—

Gil's phone rings. It makes him flinch, cringing away from the noise, and quickly Gil answers it.

There's a pause as Gil listens, and then he says, _"What?"_

Malcolm stares at him, not sure what he's expecting by the almost terrified look on Gil's face. 

"O-okay," he says finally. "Okay, thank you."

He puts the back of his hand to his mouth, and looks at Malcolm. Forces him to avert his eyes again, squirming under the intensity of the gaze. 

"They've been looking for Watkins," he says. "They've found...three bodies on the property...so far."

Bodies? More victims of John, or of The Surgeon?

He can't ask before Gil speaks again.

"They found a fourth, too. In the lake..."

Malcolm stops breathing.

"...with chains and a weight...twenty years at least."

Malcolm knows now. He knows.

The water The Girl drowned him in, over and over and _over_ again. The water dripping from her naked body every time he sees her. 

She’s there. 

Or, she was. And now she isn’t. Now she’s with them.

"They don't know—"

"Her," Malcolm says. 

"What? Kid, they haven't even—"

"It's Her."

"I have to go," Gil says, standing, and Malcolm rolls onto his side again, ignores his goodbye as he leaves. If Gil doesn’t want to listen, he doesn’t have to. They never did before. He told them, he _told them,_ and they’d never listened. Not before John.

Her. It's _Her._ He knows it is.

' _Me,'_ She says into his ear, and giggles, lips pressing against his temple in a fleeting kiss. _'Me, Malcolm. Thank you.’_

"Then go," he says. "Please. _Please go._ "

He blinks, and she's gone.

When she doesn't return, even by that night, relief is an ache that grows in his chest until tears are running down his face and sobs are wracking him.

' _Just you and me now, isn't it?_ ' John asks, stroking his hair.

And he cries harder, because before all this, he'd thought nothing could be worse than not knowing the truth.

And now, this is where the answers have led him.

**x**

For three days, Malcolm is silent. 

Gil wants to believe it's from the drugs, the sedation so powerful that when Malcolm falls asleep, he doesn't twitch, let alone have terrors. But on the third day, when the sun is up, they only give him saline, and still he's quiet.

He isn't unresponsive like before. He tracks their movements with his eyes, looks at them when they speak, but he says nothing. Doesn't look like he even _wants_ to reply. 

Doesn't look like he wants to live. Doesn't _act_ like he does, refusing everything they try to give him. 

"They're going to put a feeding tube in you if you don't _eat,"_ Jessica says, pushing another tray towards him, finally losing her patience. "Malcolm. Please. Stop this! Don't do this to me, not again." 

Malcolm doesn't look at the food. His stomach growls loud enough for the whole room to hear, but he doesn't make any move to eat.

"I love you," Gil tells him, again and again. He never said it enough, he knows. He needs to say it more. He almost says it as much as he says _I'm sorry_. He gives Malcolm candies, but Malcolm doesn't smile. He doesn't eat them. 

He just...stares. Casts brief glances up at them, around the room, and then looks down again.

The body in the lake is a skeleton, nothing more. Decomposed far beyond any sort of recognition. But their ME finds it was a female by the shape of the skull, and Malcolm cries at the information.

_Her._ His lips form the word but produce no sound. 

Gil hasn't figured out a way to tell him that it looks like he's right. He hasn't figured out a way to tell him a lot of things...and doesn't know if he ever _should_. 

He doesn't know _how_ he could. How he could ever, ever tell Malcolm that…

That he lied. That there _is_ something else. That Watkins...

_'You're so beautiful, little one. Mine. I saved your life._

_Don't I deserve a reward for that? Hmm?_

_Oh, little Malcolm…_

_Look at you and that pretty mouth._

_So soft._

_So...empty._

_Should I fix that? Hmm?_

_Oh, I think I should.'_

Gil flinches. 

He'd vomited in the trash can of the conference room, and JT had had to help him back into his seat with hands that were steady and a voice that wasn't. Edrisa had entered the room even before they’d started it, leaving them frantic to shut the screen off before she could see, and given them medical reports that confirmed Malcolm’s blood at the scene...and that Watkins’ DNA had been found on his clothing.

Watkins had taken something from him, and he doesn't know how in the hell someone is supposed to be given that information, let alone be the one to give it.

He can't. He just _can't._ Malcolm doesn't seem to remember. He seemed, on the video, to be mostly unconscious—Watkins had either completely or nearly _stopped his heart_ , however briefly—and that's for the best. At least for now, that's how it should be. Maybe he'll never have to know.

His eyes water, and he reaches his hand out in an offer for Malcolm to take it. 

Malcolm doesn't for a moment. He stares at it like he's not sure what it's doing there beside him, or maybe isn't sure what it is at all. Gil nearly pulls back, and then, slowly, Malcolm grasps onto it.

God, Gil can hope, because he doesn't think Malcolm can take anymore.

**x**

On the fourth day, Gil brings him lunch, and Malcolm feels like he's dying the second he sees it. His vision goes bleary, and his breaths become quick and shallow as Gil sets the tray on the table and slides that over Malcolm's bed.

"Come on, kid," he says. "They can discharge you today. You can go _home._ But you have to eat."

Malcolm's stomach growls, and he clutches at it, groaning softly. 

"Something," Gil says. He gestures at the fruit, the oatmeal, the juice. "Anything. Please."

Malcolm's eyes slide behind Gil, stare at John for a moment and then fill with tears, and Gil tilts his head. "Hey...what's wrong? What was that?"

Malcolm shakes his head. Gil slowly reaches out with one curled finger, lets Malcolm see and move away if he wants to. When Malcolm doesn’t, Gil wipes away the tear at the corner of his eye, and Malcolm whimpers. 

“Come on,” Gil says again. “Please. For Ainsley? Your mom? For me.”

Malcolm sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, taking a long, deep breath. And then, eventually, he points at the cup of cherry jello, what he thinks will least hurt his stomach and still-sore throat, and Gil offers him a smile as he peels the lid off, handing him it with a spoon. 

"You can go home," Gil tells him. "Don't you want to?"

Malcolm nods. He sniffles, and wipes his running nose.

"Why are you punishing yourself, kid? You didn't do anything wrong. You know that, right? What happened...I told you. That wasn’t your fault. It just wasn’t. You have to believe me.”

Malcolm doesn’t really. But he manages to bring a spoonful of jello to his lips—

And gags. He gags like he hadn’t known what his own body was doing, like it was something awful instead of something he liked, if perhaps not his favorite flavor. 

Gil sucks in a breath and holds it.

Malcolm looks down, and it’s not jello. 

It’s blood. His spoon is full of _blood,_ and all he can think of is John’s bloody fingers shoving into his mouth, the taste of the girl— _Jasmine Miller_ —on his tongue. 

He screams, throwing the cup and the spoon across the room. Gil startles so hard he nearly knocks the chair over trying to get back. 

“No! No, no, no!” he cries, and slams his hands over his ears. It hurts, it _hurts,_ so he does it twice more until Gil grabs his wrists and stops him. 

“Malcolm! Bright, stop! God, stop, please!” 

“He—he hurt me!” he manages to get out. “He—Gil— _Gil—he hurt me!”_

Gil wraps his arms around him, holds him tightly even when he cries out and tries to squirm away.

“I know! I know he did. Malcolm, I know! Oh, please, kid—kid, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

“He _hurt me,_ ” Malcolm says, over and over again, because it’s the only thing he can say. Hurt doesn’t even _begin_ to describe what John did to him, but how can he ever tell anyone everything? Relive it? Would Gabrielle expect him to talk about it in therapy? No. No, he can’t go back to normal life. Nothing will ever be okay or normal again, not fucking ever, he can’t—he can’t—

“I can’t—G-Gil—please—I can’t—breathe—”

Gil settles his hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck, pulling him against his chest. “Bright, listen to my voice. You can breathe. You can. I’m looking at your O2 level on the screen, Malcolm, it’s ninety-nine. You’re breathing just fine. I promise you. You just need to relax. Breathe with me, okay? Listen to my breaths.” 

Malcolm can hear Gil’s heart beating, air whooshing in and out of his lungs, and he closes his eyes, counts the beats and breaths until he forgets about anything else, until nothing else matters but the sound.

“I’m so sorry, Bright,” Gil whispers into his hair. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much and I'm _sorry_. But I’m going to protect you, okay? I’ll never let you go again. I promise."

Malcolm breathes, and he believes him.

An hour later, he somehow manages to eat an entire bowl of soup _and_ a cup of ice cream, and Gil rewards him with a kiss on top of the head and pride in his eyes, which is more than enough.

That afternoon, he's discharged. They change his bandages a last time, remove the drain from his side, and fit his hand with a hard cast to replace the splint. By the time he's getting into the wheelchair, he's already picked at the ends by his fingers, fraying the fibers.

"You ready to get outta here, kid?" Gil asks.

"Yes. Love you," Malcolm says, so quietly it's barely audible at all, and Gil looks like he wants to _weep._

"I love you, too. Come on. Let's get you home."

Malcolm looks down. "Don't wanna."

"...You don't want to go home?"

"Alone," Malcolm says, and then whimpers. "P-please. Don't wanna be alone. Please." 

Gil rubs his beard, trying to think. "Jessie mentioned you moving back home…maybe just for—"

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut. It's more than enough for Gil to know that won't be happening, because it isn't what Malcolm wants. 

He thinks it through thoroughly, and then offers, "My place, then?"

Malcolm relaxes a bit. He nods, and Gil only briefly worries about how Jessica will react before giving a nod of his own.

“Alright, kid. Let’s go.”

**x**

With the specially padded shoes the hospital gives him to wear while his feet heal and Gil’s help, Malcolm could probably walk from the car to Gil’s house. Instead, Gil lifts him up in his arms, and Malcolm finds his cheeks flushing as he sees someone walking by and staring at them.

Thirty years old. Not ten anymore. Not as small as he feels. Why—why can’t he just _act_ it? He’s so—

_‘Pathetic_ ,’ John sings again, flicking Malcolm’s nose, and Malcolm only just holds back a whimper, pushing his face against Gil’s shoulder.

"What first?" Gil asks once he gets the door closed behind them, hooking the keys on the wall and setting Malcolm down on the couch. "Could fix you something to eat, or—"

"Shower," Malcolm says weakly. "P...please."

Gil seems to freeze for an instant. Malcolm knows he's thinking about just how dirty Malcolm feels...how dirty he _is,_ even if Gil doesn't seem to believe it. 

"They said you could," he says, and Malcolm nods. "Just...you have to be careful, okay? We gotta put one of those liners on the cast, and—"

"I _know,"_ Malcolm interrupts. He doesn't know why it's suddenly unbearable the way Gil is treating him. Not a kid...not ten...thirty...he’s _thirty,_ why does he feel so _tiny_ and _fucking pitiful?_ He just wants a goddamn shower...please, _fuck,_ he just wants to get clean.

Gil flinches, just slightly. "Okay. Yeah. Sorry, kid. You're right. Let's get the liner on, okay?"

Malcolm sticks his arm out. Gil fits the plastic onto the cast, and then carries him to the bathroom, sitting him on the edge of the tub. He grabs a sweater and sweatpants of his own, setting them on the counter for him, until they can get to his place tomorrow.

“You need help with—” Gil starts, reaching down towards the shoes, and Malcolm pulls back.

“I got it,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Gil swallows hard and forces a smile. He seems to understand he’s not going to get anywhere further with this, and he backs up. “Okay. Sorry. You’re good. You’re all good then. Just...please call for me if you need me, alright? Alright.” 

Malcolm wouldn’t if he was fucking _drowning_. But he nods, just to get him to leave, just so he can rip off the hospital’s clothes and fight with the shoes himself.

‘ _Oh, my, little Malcolm_ ,’ John purrs, stroking down his back. ‘ _You little tease…’_

Malcolm flinches away, jumps into the shower so quickly he nearly falls. 

“Fuck away from me,” he hisses, yanking the curtain closed with one hand and covering himself with the other, though it feels no better despite knowing it's his own hand and not John’s. It feels bad. Everything feels bad. Wrong. It’s wrong, wrong, _wrong._ “You’re not real. You’re not _real._ ”

‘ _Unless nothing else is…_ ’

He ignores him. He turns the water as hot as it will go, and scratches his exposed body raw. He washes it with soap and the loofah, and then simply uses his nails until some of his skin is bleeding.

And then he sits on the edge of the tub, buries his face in his elbow, and muffles sobs until his side and chest hurt too much for him to continue.

His beard is itchy. He doesn’t like it. He _hates_ it. It just reminds him of how long it’s been. How long he was with John, how long he was _John’s._

He turns the water off, wincing as he steps out of the tub, and dries off, pulling the clothes on and then opening Gil’s cabinet, grabbing for a razor and cream.

His reflection scares him. The circles under his eyes are so dark they might as well be _black._ His cheekbones are poking out, and the mere sight reminds him just how hungry he is. 

But he doesn’t want to eat. He’ll ignore it as long as possible, because eating makes him sick. He doesn’t know _why,_ but the nausea is far too much to bear.

He avoids looking in the mirror, just shaves where he can. He gets half of his chin done before his hand is shaking too hard to finish. He breathes out, dropping it, and grabs onto the sink to brace himself.

_'Such a_ pretty _face_ ,' John says, and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut. How easy it would be to break the razor open, to take the blade and just—

There's a knock on the door, and it startles a gasp out of him. 

"Sorry. You doing okay, kid? Just been a while…" 

"No," Malcolm replies, without really meaning to, looking at himself in the mirror, at John behind him.

He can't fucking live like this. Not with _him._ Not—

"No? What's wrong? Bright? Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Malcolm says, stepping back as Gil pushes the door open.

"Hey, what's wrong?" 

"Just dizzy," he says. He's not sure Gil won't take him straight back to the hospital if he knows. He's not sure that's not exactly where he belongs, but he doesn't want to go.

"Do you want me to help?" 

He shrugs a shoulder. Gil takes the razor, rinses it off, and closes the lid to the toilet. "Come sit."

Malcolm can't say he isn't relieved. He grips his shaking hand against his chest and sits, closing his eyes as Gil moves to finish his face.

_'How_ _sweet,'_ John says, though Malcolm doesn't acknowledge him. ' _How_ does _he resist that mouth of yours? How can anyone? Oh, little Malcolm…your talent is being wasted.'_

Malcolm flinches, hard enough to make Gil pull back.

"What happened? Did I nick you?"

Malcolm parts his lips to catch his breath, and still refuses to open his eyes.

"No," he says finally. "Just...tired."

Gil continues, even more careful with his movements, and finishes in silence. Malcolm rubs the towel Gil hands him over his face, and when he pulls back, John has his knife to Gil's throat.

_'I don't like sharing,_ ' he says, swiping the blade across, and Malcolm groans, looking down at blood that's there one moment and gone the next.

_Sharing._ Gil wouldn't hurt him. Gil loves him. Gil would never, ever…

Stop. Stop, stop, _stop, please..._

"You're okay," Gil is saying, and he finally looks up, meets Gil's eyes in a rare moment of confidence and then starts to cry again. 

"Hey. Oh, Bright, hold on...ssh, everything's okay."

“I’m so _tired,_ ” Malcolm whimpers. “Please. Gil...I’m so tired…”

“Alright. It’s okay. Gotta change your bandages, and we can get you to bed, alright?” 

Malcolm nods, leaning against him as he lifts him up, bringing him back into the living room.

He’s quiet again, too quiet, as Malcolm raises his arms for him to remove his shirt. Malcolm lowers his head, ashamed, but Gil doesn’t react this time to the wounds. 

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see, and feels John’s fingers in his hair as he coos, ‘ _Made you so beautiful, my beloved…’_

He jerks, and opens his eyes, and Gil so gently shushes him. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says, and Malcolm obeys. It’s in his best interest, isn’t it? He isn’t sure he won’t entirely break down if he sees what John did to him without the barrier of bandages.

When Gil finishes, he offers to make food. Malcolm shakes his head, and tells him he’s not hungry. _Lies._ He knows he’s going to have to eat in the morning, or Gil’s going to have him admitted. He knows all of Malcolm’s tricks, all of his excuses, from when he was younger, and they’re not going to work here. He’s going to have to face it eventually, just like everything else.

And then Gil sits beside him, sighing, and Malcolm doesn’t feel like he has to face anything. At least not alone. He curls against Gil, whimpering, and Gil wraps an arm around him. 

“I got you,” he says, and Malcolm thinks he might be more grateful for that now than any other time in his life. 

He’s exhausted. His eyelids won’t stop closing, opening a last time to stare at the frame on the table beside them. Jackie...and Gil...and him. A family. 

His family.

"You remember that?" Gil asks, taking the photo in his hands and Malcolm hums and nods. 

"She loved you so much, kid," Gil says, stroking her face in the photo, and Malcolm leans against him. 

"I miss her," Malcolm says, and Gil chokes on a sob.

"So do I," he says, kissing Malcolm's head and holding him tight. "Oh, God, so do I."

Malcolm falls asleep there, and though Gil means to carry him to bed, he ends up drifting off too, the photo still between them.


	24. Just For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, quick question, do you all know I love you? That's very important. I still have no idea how this fic somehow became The Chosen One in this fandom, but I am grateful for it LITERALLY every single SECOND, and I love you all. We are not quite at the end, but I now have a vague idea of how many chapters this fic will be, about 28-30. Not certain. And probably won't be until I post the last one!
> 
> That's not to say there's nothing...interesting...that's going to happen soon...oh no, dear readers. I still have so many, many things planned…>:) They're all just coming together clearer. 
> 
> Okay. I love you. Pweez enjoy (◍•ᴗ•◍)
> 
> TW for mentions of past child abuse, disordered eating, and technically non-con touching except not actually? It's just his hallucination. Hallucina-John. Y'all really thought I'd kill him and leave Malcolm alone for once didn't you lmao SIKE

Malcolm wakes, _happy_ , to a hand in his hair. It’s stroking gently, nails scratching at his scalp in just the way he’s always liked, and he hums, curling closer. 

Home. He's home. Not there anymore, not ever again.

He's with Gil, and Gil is safety. _His_ safety. Always so warm, soft, _comfortable..._ it reminds him of being a child again.

A child so blind and innocent to what he’d done, blocking it away in hopes to never remember it again. He was innocent. Or...he'd _thought_ he was.

Never again, now. And that hurts to know. That hurts to be all he can think about when he should be relaxed, calm, serene.

Gil's arms shouldn't hurt. That's where he's safest. That’s where he’s always been safest. As much as it hurts his mother, Gil has always been able to provide what she never could, what she never _wanted_ to give at the time.

Oh, his mother. He doesn’t want to face her, to tell her he slept here in his fear instead of with her. Maybe...maybe Gil can take care of that. Gil seems to be taking care of everything, especially him. It makes him feel good...makes him feel like John was wrong. 

John hadn’t been wrong about much, but his family still wanted him. His family had missed him, had looked for him _desperately_ even when John had told him otherwise. 

They missed him. They _want_ him. John is nothing but a nightmare, now. A ghost he can't get rid of, but...only a ghost.

This is really one of the only times he’s ever come to without screaming…and he finds that fascinating. He remembers crawling into bed between Gil and Jackie when he had his nightmares, and he’d wake up just as calm as this, cuddled between them, feeling loved again for the first time since his father was arrested...or maybe for the first time ever.

His father didn’t love him. That wasn’t love, as much as it had felt like it; it was obsession. Love wouldn't have left memory gaps of _years_ , wouldn't have left him traumatized by things he can't even remember, that he _fears._ Whatever Martin felt for him was _wrong_. 

And yet...and _yet._ Martin had come for him. Martin had somehow broken out of _prison_ to come for him.

Martin cared for him, at least...didn't he? He'd...he'd saved Malcolm's life. Serial killers don't _save_ lives. Not unless...not unless there's _something_ there, right? Something...human. 

Something not quite broken, untouched by the rest of the bad. It's intriguing. Why?

When he's better, when he can walk, when he can show no weakness in the face of the man who destroyed _and saved_ him, he very much wants to find out.

But not yet. Not now. Here he's safe, and...

He breathes deep, squeezing his eyes shut a little tighter, and then frowns.

He knows the smell of Gil, and this doesn’t seem to be it. Not myrrh, or cinnamon, or something always familiar since childhood.

He smells... _petrichor_ , as if they were outside, or—

Or in a forest. 

Leaves crackling under his feet, camera pointed in his face, knife in his tiny, tiny hands—

_'Just like we talked about now—'_

No. God, no.

“Sleep well?” 

Malcolm is frozen. His breath is caught in his throat.

That—

That’s not Gil. 

He dares to look up, and realizes he’s been cuddling _John._

With a scream, he flings himself away. John laughs, sitting up, and watches him try to regain his bearings, scrambling back on his elbows and then jerking to a stop when the chains around his wrists pull taut.

“No,” he says, looking around, and sees nothing but cold concrete, dim bulbs. “No, please! Please—please—God, _no!_ "

This will break him. This will be the end. If he’s back here, if he never left—

“I told you, little Malcolm,” John says, settling down between his legs, grasping his knees and spreading them. “It’s just me.”

Malcolm can’t kick, is completely immobile, only able to watch with eyes wide in horror as John’s hand gets closer to—

“No, no, no—”

“Malcolm! Malcolm, wake up!”

John grabs his shoulders, and Malcolm slams his hands up and claws him across the face, shouting, “Get away! Stop! Don’t touch me! Stop! _No!”_

“It’s just a dream! It’s a dream! _Bright!”_

That’s—that’s not John’s voice. John never called him Bright. That’s—

“Gil! Help me! Help—” He cries out and squeezes his eyes shut, brought closer into arms that slowly, slowly become recognizable, arms he clutches to, a heaving chest he buries his face and sobs into. 

“B-Bright...it’s okay...it’s okay, Bright…” Gil slumps down to sit against the couch, pulling Malcolm with him, and Malcolm climbs into his lap, getting as close as physically possible.

“Whoa—kid— _ow_ —okay, okay...relax...ssh, ssh...it's okay. You awake?" 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm whimpers. “I don’t know...I don’t know...Gil...God, Gil...please...he…”

“Ssh, kid. He’s not here. Promise. It’s just me. A-ah…"

Gil winces, lifts one hand to wipe somewhere on his face, and Malcolm sees the blood he tries to hide, pulling back and staring up at him with a gasp.

“Gil,” he says, scrambling away, and Gil covers his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding the bloodied lip but not the three parallel scratches from Malcolm’s nails on his cheek, the nails nurses had surely trimmed but that still have grown back raggedly enough to break skin.

He's hurt Gil _again._

_Again and again and again—_

His chest aches so badly it's unbearable, and he refuses to take another breath. He digs his nails into his palms until there are tears in his eyes, all as punishment, and then finally chokes out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t—”

“It’s fine!” Gil insists, smiling, wiping his lip again and then grabbing for the box of tissues on the table, pressing a few of them to the split. “It’s okay, it was my fault, I didn’t bring you to bed, I should have. I know you didn’t mean to.”

Malcolm finally gulps in air, wishes he never had to breathe again for how _destructive_ he is, and holds back the tears with everything in him. He can’t cry. He can’t. He just can’t. It’s his fault, he’d just hurt Gil, but he can’t cry, because he’s already weak enough. Gil has already seen him weak enough. 

Gil has already seen him at his worst. His very, very worst, his most disgusting and dirty and vulnerable with John’s fucking hand down his pants and—

And if he keeps thinking about it, he’s going to be sick. All over Gil’s floor, and that’s not something Gil needs.

He blinks hard, shaking his head, and tries to focus on the present. On Gil. 

_Gil. Safe. Safe_.

He leans forward, desperately, and Gil somehow, as always, seems to read his mind, reaching out to grasp the back of Malcolm’s neck, fingers pressing just right, applying just enough pressure to ground him. 

That’s all it takes, all it ever takes. Malcolm sags against him, his breaths slowing back into something calmer as he relaxes. 

For so long, an eternity, he hasn’t been able to relax. It almost feels wrong to do it now.

But Gil will protect him. He hadn’t been able to find him, but that's not his fault. It’s not. 

It was…

Atonement. 

Penance. 

John had let him know exactly why he was there, and maybe that’s why he was there so _long_. Maybe it really is what he had deserved.

God, _how_ _long?_

“Gil,” he whimpers softly. “H...how long was I there?”

Gil tenses. He swallows hard, clearing his throat, and Malcolm feels it in his chest, pressed against Gil’s. 

“Nineteen days,” Gil replies.

Malcolm thinks he takes the news rather well. He doesn’t scream, or cry. He just stares for a moment, quietly says, “I’m gonna—” and then is doubled over the trash can Gil yanks over.

“Bright…” Gil says, keeping his hair out of his face. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember it all,” Malcolm spits, wiping his mouth as if anything is really coming up. It reminds him of being in the cellar, starved and dying and so, so _thirsty_...everything fucking reminds him of down there, he's never going to stop remembering...he just wants to forget it _all._

It's what he's always done best, so why not now?

“I was…” He frowns. “I was...w-withdrawing.” 

“I can’t even imagine,” Gil says, and Malcolm feels a pang of something unwelcome, something that’s almost anger. 

That’s just it. No one can imagine what he went through down there. He could never even begin to explain it. Not to Gil, not to Gabrielle, not to _anyone._

He doesn’t want to. _They_ wouldn’t want him to. The beatings, the abuse, the _hands,_ everywhere, all over him, all the damn time.

“It hurt,” he murmurs after a long pause. “It hurt, Gil. So much.”

"I know," Gil says.

But he doesn't. He just _doesn't._ He could never, ever know.

Malcolm pulls away, suddenly. Maybe it's more punishment to himself. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, and Gil nods.

"Careful," he says. "I'll fix breakfast. Anything particular you want?"

Malcolm purses his lips against the sudden, rolling wave of hunger, followed by nausea. _Nothing_ , he wants to say, but instead he just shrugs. 

"You can start softer foods, now...so...how about pancakes?" 

Malcolm smiles, though he tries to hide it. He remembers Jackie and him making pancakes every Saturday morning he'd spent the night, eggs and bacon even if it would sometimes upset Malcolm's stomach. 

But never pancakes. A safe food. 

He misses her. Gil's eyes are a little watery. 

He can't say no, not to that. 

"That sounds good," he says. Gil looks delighted he's gotten such a positive response, even if it was probably a little manipulated on his part.

"Okay. Breakfast, then we can go get your clothes and—"

"Sunshine," Malcolm whimpers suddenly. "My baby birdy. Is she okay? Please tell me—"

"Of _course_ she's okay," Gil says. "Of course, kid. We took care of her. Dani especially."

"I want my bird," Malcolm says. "Thank you. I love her. I missed her. Did she miss me?" 

Gil looks absolutely crestfallen, and Malcolm almost feels bad for asking. 

"We _all_ did, Bright. Yes. Nothing was the same without you. Goddamn, kid...missed you so much it _hurt_."

_'Liar_ ,' John whispers, and Malcolm tries not to cringe.

Gil seems to sense his discomfort. He smiles, pats his own knees, and then stands up. "Pancakes. Coffee?

" _Please."_ Malcolm needs that far more than food.

Such a simple luxury he never thought he'd have again…

He stands up, wobbles unsteadily, and is grateful Gil has already turned into the kitchen and doesn't notice. He's been coddling Malcolm enough. 

_'So cute,_ ' John says, following Malcolm as he limps and winces his way into the bathroom. _'Why are you ignoring me? Didn't we have a moment back there?'_

Malcolm doesn't know how he's going to _live_ like this. Unable to even take a piss without John fucking _staring_ at him, making _comments._

The Girl hadn't showed up this much. John shouldn't _be_ here, not all the time. His goddamn brain is—

_'Broken_ ,' John says. He grabs Malcolm's chin and forces him to look at himself in the mirror, grinning. _'Look at you. Look at those eyes. So much pain. Oh, little Malcolm, I broke you in half, didn't I?'_

He does look, and he doesn't look familiar. There's something odd, something off, about his reflection. 

It's not him. 

_'You're so beautiful,_ ' John murmurs, nipping his ear and sliding a hand down his chest, and Malcolm yelps, flailing his arms and then jerking the bathroom door back open and panting as he leans against the hallway wall. 

Not real. John _isn't real_. 

But he was. He was, and that's enough.

Gil calls out, "You okay?" and quickly Malcolm replies with a simple _yes,_ a simple lie.

How can he tell Gil what's happening? It should be over. It has to be over. They've been through enough.

He's put them through enough.

He goes down the hall, almost automatically, and finds himself in Gil's room. He slumps down in the bed, burying his face in the pillows, and breathes deep. He remembers the smell of the room, the blankets, the fabric softener, from all that time ago, and wonders if his old room is still the way it was last time he was here.

There’s something beside him, and when he looks, he frowns.

A pillow, tucked under the blankets. 

Malcolm realizes it’s on the side Jackie used to sleep on.

‘ _Aww,'_ John murmurs, ‘ _he’s lonely. You’ll never know what that’s like again, will you, little Malcolm? Now that I'm here…'_

Malcolm doesn’t grace him with any attention. He knows it’ll only make it worse. Instead he picks himself up and tries to move past him.

John stands in front of him, and Malcolm flinches back.

Not real. _Not real_. 

“You’re not real,” he murmurs. “Stop. You’re _not._ ”

And yet, he almost wants to call for Gil for a second opinion, because John’s death isn’t clear in his head. 

He remembers the grin John gave him. The pride in his expression, in his eyes. He remembers twisting the knife, but not John actually _dying._ He doesn't know what happened after, not until he woke days later.

For all he knows…

‘ _I might be,_ ’ John says, taking a step towards him, and Malcolm mirrors it backwards. Once, twice, until he trips and sits down on the bed.

' _Right where you belong…_ '

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, slaps away John's wandering hands. "You're not real!" he hisses, shrinking away from him and slipping out the door.

Using the wall to support his weight as he stumbles, he finds himself in the guest room, the room he'd come to call his own as a child. Gil and Jackie had _told him_ he could. Told him that everything they had was his, too, and that they wanted him to feel safe here.

And he had. He _does._ Safer than his apartment would feel, surely. 

Just until he feels better. Just until he regains his strength. Then everything can go back to normal. 

Will it ever go back to normal?

John doesn't say anything. Malcolm already knows the answer.

No. 

It never, ever will.

He doesn't bother looking around. He knows it'll do nothing but make him feel worse.

Instead, he perks his head up as he hears Gil call, "Kid!" from the kitchen, and smells the food far before he even leaves the hallway.

He doesn't want to go out there, but he does anyway. Gil smiles at him from the kitchen, and Malcolm has the strangest feeling come over him at the sight, like maybe he wants to just stay here forever, let Gil take care of him, and maybe he'll never have to feel afraid or unsafe again.

But Gil wouldn't want that. He wouldn't want Malcolm to, because Malcolm isn't a child anymore. He's thirty years old, and he can take care of himself.

And he just wants Gil to be happy, for God's sake. He doesn't deserve to be so miserable, clutching onto memories of better times while he slept.

But Malcolm does. He doesn't ever deserve to be happy again, after what he's done.

_Filthy little whore._

"Sit," Gil says, serving him a plate and placing the maple syrup beside it. "Orange juice?" 

Malcolm nods, and Gil fills his glass, gives him a steaming mug of coffee beside it. He feels loved, cared for, and he doesn't hate it. He wants to feel it forever.

John puts his hands on Malcolm's shoulders from behind, and Malcolm gasps, jerks and knocks his fork off and to the floor.

"Bright," Gil says, grabbing for it and getting him a new one. "What was that? Are you okay?"

"Pain," he says weakly. "Just a pain."

"You have pills to take after you eat something...you know you can take the painkillers, too."

"Maybe," Malcolm replies, but he won't. He deserves the pain, and Gil knows he thinks that. He's just offering to be nice, thorough.

He's too nice. Too thorough.

"I've got eggs, if you want some."

Malcolm shakes his head. He needs to _do_ something, to stop just _staring._ He's being…

A victim. Gil shouldn't have to do this, fucking _coddle_ him. Malcolm should be at home, content with starving himself and sleeping in his re—

He chokes on the coffee. John hums behind him.

_Jesus._ He hadn't even thought of his restraints until now, about how they could make him feel after... 

He can't imagine waking up from a dream of being in chains only to _really_ be in them.

No, no, no. He can't...do this. They _aren't_ chains. He knows where the release buttons are. They'll be fine. _He'll_ be fine. He's always been fine. 

He's fine. He's fine. He's fine. 

_Please. You're fine. Nineteen days. Nothing. Nothing at all. Imagine how much worse it could have been. He couldn't have broken you in nineteen days._

_'And yet_ ,' John says, and Malcolm breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight.

“Hey."

Malcolm swallows hard, taking a moment to make sure he isn't going to start sobbing if he opens them, and then finally glances up. 

Gil looks so _worried._ Always so worried for him. The best man Malcolm's ever known, and perhaps the only one he'll ever trust again after this. 

“Are you okay?”

“I—” Malcolm says, and then swallows again and finally, brokenly chokes out, “I’m so hungry, Gil…”

Gil reaches, like he wants to hold Malcolm's hand, and Malcolm pulls away. Too dangerous to get used to.

"Bright... _please_ eat. Look, I’ll fix you anything you want. Oatmeal? Broth? You can eat a whole bag of Twizzlers if that's what you want, okay? Just _something._ " 

_I’m not good enough,_ he thinks. Behind him, John calls him a good boy for remembering.

Gil gasps quietly, and Malcolm slowly comes to terms with the fact that he'd just said that out loud.

“Shit,” he says, ducking his head as his face flushes hot. “I...I mean…”

“Bright…"

"Oh, God, just—just _don't._ " He rubs at his eyes, resists scratching down his face to match what he'd done to Gil. "I just don't—I don't want to get sick. Everytime I try to eat—and my throat hurts. It always just _hurts,_ and I don't want—"

Gil looks down at his plate, uncomfortably pushing eggs around with his fork, and Malcolm cuts off.

_"What?"_ he demands, and Gil shakes his head.

"I'm just so _sorry,_ Bright," he says finally. "I wasn't there for you."

_Oh, no._ He's made Gil sad _again_. Why is it that all he can fucking do anymore is make people sad? 

He hasn't even talked to his mother and Ainsley yet. They're not going to allow him to avoid them forever. They're being nice, giving him space. He's surprised his mother isn't outside the door demanding he come home right now. As much as she cares for Gil _now,_ Malcolm's love for him has always been something that upset her.

He fidgets, uncomfortable at the memories of his mother's frustrations that surface. When every time he'd wanted to go to Gil's ended in arguments and both of them in tears. When every time he came home, she wouldn't talk to him, sometimes for hours, up to a day at the worst of it. She'd talk to Ainsley, and drink, and Malcolm was left to beg for her forgiveness. 

She did other things in her anger. He remembers her painful grip on his arm in the basement, and all the times before that. He remembers the time they got into a fight, and he'd told her he loved Jackie as his mother more than he ever did her, and she'd slapped him so hard it sent him sprawling into the floor.

She'd cradled him as he cried, apologizing and hushing him, pouring affection she never showed, and that's why he'd forgiven it. He thought, maybe, that's all that needed to happen for him to be loved.

She drank, and drank, and he was left to pick up the pieces she left behind, sometimes of himself. 

Ainsley didn't know. He never told Gil, nor Jackie. 

But physicality hadn't even happened all that often. Enough he remembers considering it a possibility any time she raised her voice, but not often, and there'd never been any bruises. He hadn't considered it abuse.

He knows differently now. If someone asked for his opinion for themselves, he'd tell them of course it was.

Not him, though. 

Not him, because he knows it had _truly_ been his fault, each and every time. He's goaded the anger, surely—been a bastard of a child during her worst nightmare and—

And looked just like _him._ She'd hardly wanted to _look_ at him. He was Martin's boy, every bit he didn't want to be. And that was enough of an excuse in itself, wasn't it?

He _loves_ his mother. He's never wanted anything more than her to love him as much. She and Ainsley are all the blood he has left, and he knows she's sorry. It had been such a terrible time for them all. She's apologized and she's _trying_. But it doesn’t stop the past from hurting. 

He wants to forget everything. Start over completely. And it hurts to know that's not possible, that all of this will haunt him until his last breath.

He manages to pick up a piece of pancake on the fork, swallowing hard as he struggles to gather the strength to bring it to his mouth. 

Jackie and Gil had never hurt him, not even during the worst of it, but Gil’s done bad things, too, ever bringing him back to this, to his father. But really, it would have happened anyway, right? It's not his fault. It's Malcolm's, always. And Gil has hurt him so much less, and given him so much more.

He loves Gil. He's clinging to him _too much,_ and he loves him. 

He stops just short of taking the bite and gags. He wipes his forehead and puts the fork down again to breathe, as if this is some sort of workout instead of trying to _eat._

"I feel sick," he says. _Whines._

Gil is staring at him. He doesn't seem to realize he's doing it, but his gaze is on Malcolm's mouth, and Malcolm squirms again. 

' _He thinks it's pretty,'_ John coos. _'He's thinking how it'd feel—'_

"Stop!" Malcolm cries, and Gil jerks back, out of his stupor.

"Wh-what?"

Malcolm buries his face in his hands, and says, "Stop looking at me. _Please._ "

“I'm sorry. I—I'll—I can eat in the other room. Okay?"

Before Malcolm can respond, Gil is grabbing his plate and glass and leaving, and Malcolm sits there for a moment until he realizes he's made Gil leave his _own_ table in his _own_ home.

He pushes the food around and lets tears stream from his eyes as John murmurs terrible things in his ear, and then tosses it in the trash before Gil can come see.

Gil isn't stupid. "We'll stop at the store," he says, rinsing the dishes to put into the washer. "Twizzlers and Jell-O. I don't care."

Malcolm smiles at that, just a little, and cringes away from John's touch. "Can—"

"What's wrong?"

"Can you just…" He struggles for a minute, and then asks, "H-hold me, for a while?"

Gil still looks so _sad,_ but there's a grin on his lips. “Yeah. Couch?”

Malcolm nods. He flinches again, turning his head away as John keeps trying to grab his chin, and then follows Gil to the living room. 

Gil takes the quilt on top of the couch, wraps it around Malcolm’s shoulders, and then picks him up, cradles him in his lap as he sits. 

John can’t hurt him here. Can’t touch his skin with a blanket wrapped around him, can’t grab him while he’s under Gil’s protection. He’s still cold, and doesn’t think he ever won’t be again, and John still talks, never shuts his stupid dead mouth, but Malcolm can ignore both things better with his face against the soft fabric of Gil’s turtleneck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m not... _weak,_ I’m…”

“You’re not weak,” Gil says, hugging him a little tighter. “You’re brave. So brave, Bright. You hear me? The bravest man I know.”

‘ _Lies,'_ John says. He strokes Malcolm’s hair, the only part he can reach, and Malcolm grabs Gil’s hand, puts it on top of his head instead. 

Gil chuckles quietly, scratches gently at his scalp, and Malcolm sighs, relaxes. John backs off, never gone but _away._

Just for now, he's safe.

**x**

Gil hadn’t meant to stare, especially not...there.

But every moment that goes by he feels sicker, guiltier, about what he’s keeping from Malcolm when all Malcolm deserves is the truth.

No. God, the truth isn't what he deserves. _That_ isn't something he ever deserved. 

It’s something Gil had dreamed about. The video. The breathless, limp body of his and Jackie’s _precious Malcolm_ lying dead in John Watkins’s awful, abusive, thieving arms.

And then alive. 

And then _assaulted_.

Gil had woken up with a gasp, thinking for half a terrible second that Malcolm was gone again before he felt the boy still snuggled against his side, hugging Malcolm tight enough he’d whimpered in his sleep and then crying into hair that smelled like his own shampoo. 

God, Jackie would be furious. Jackie would never forgive him for allowing their beautiful Malcolm to be hurt like this.

He should have gotten to Watkins’s house sooner. He should have driven faster. He should have—he should have never taken Malcolm back here in the first place.

He’d gotten hurt before, and Gil had felt horrible guilt, but what he feels from this is something unbearable.

Malcolm is so _pale._ He's trembling in Gil's arms, now. He keeps making little noises and twitching, like something's making him uncomfortable even here, and Gil tries to pet his hair a little softer, reaches to grasp his neck as pauses in between.

He loves Malcolm so much. As much as he'd loved Jackie. And neither Jackie nor Malcolm had ever deserved to suffer. 

Not like this.

“Bright…”

He takes a breath...and blows it out again.

Not here. Not now. Not _yet._

"How're your feet?" he asks instead, and Malcolm grunts softly.

"Hurting," he replies. He opens his mouth, like he might be about to tell him something else, and then shuts it again. Gil supposes there’s nothing he _can_ say.

“Take the painkiller,” Gil tells him. “Please? It’s not going to make you sleep. Just ease the pain. I promise.”

“It’ll make me tired,” Malcolm says. “But...m-maybe later.”

For him to even consider it is surprising. It means he’s in even more pain than he’s letting on, and that's already a worrisome amount. 

He holds Malcolm for a while, long enough the boy seems to doze. He hadn’t quite understood before, in the beginning, why Malcolm had clung to him so tightly, just as he had as a child but never since. But now he knows, horribly, that anyone would need touch that they were certain wouldn’t hurt, more than anything else in the world after _that_.

That.

Jesus, _that._

All of it. Everything on the video and everything that had happened off of it.

Gil is never going to let him get hurt again. He doesn’t care what it takes. If he has to put the damn kid out of a job, he will. Anything to keep him safe. 

“He…” Malcolm finally says, wetting his lips and taking a shivering breath before continuing. “He beat them. M-my...my feet. My arms. _Me._ S-so...so many t-times. Hurt so much, Gil. He hurt me s-s-so much.”

It's not like Gil didn't know. It's not like the scarring on his body isn't something he's seen. But to hear Malcolm say it, so frightened, so _tiny..._ it renews the anger, the emotion, the guilt, the _pain_.

“I’m so sorry,” Gil says, kissing his temple, and regrets it the moment Malcolm flinches. “Oh, I'm sorry, I—”

“He hurt me...he tried to—” He buries his face in Gil’s sweater again, and Gil feels like the breath is punched from his lungs at the confirmation that Malcolm knows _nothing,_ that Gil is sitting here, comforting him, without him knowing that he was—

“I killed him,” Malcolm whispers, and Gil freezes, mind going blank.

_‘Dear John? Well...he won’t be a problem anymore...you can be sure of that.’_

_‘What does that mean? Is he dead? Did you kill him?’_

_‘I didn’t kill anyone, Gil.’_

He’d thought Martin was being coy, secretive, a manipulative, psychopathic, lying serial killer. That either he was still out there somewhere, waiting for them to lower this guard in order to get Malcolm back, or that he was dead.

Never had he considered _Malcolm_ could have been the one to kill him. Not in a million years. Not _Malcolm._ So weakened and small and _hurt._

“ _What?”_ he manages, and Malcolm’s entire body tenses.

“John. I—I think—you don’t...you don’t know what happened. My f-father...he tried to... _save_ me. And then John...hurt him. John was going to _kill_ him. He had a gun to his head, Gil. And I took the knife and I just...I…” 

He swallows hard. “I stabbed him.” He reaches up, presses one of his hands flat to Gil’s chest, and says, “Right here.”

Gil shivers, taking Malcolm's hand and pulling it away. “Kid…”

“I couldn’t remember,” Malcolm goes on, tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t. Not until I woke up, a-after we went...to the cabin. And now...they...they haven’t found him yet. But I...I couldn’t have run that far...c-could I? I think I—I think I—but what if—” He shifts uncomfortably, glancing over to the side and then squeezing his eyes shut. “What if he’s still—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gil says. “You’re with me. JT, Dani, your mom, Ainsley—we’re never going to let you out of our damn sights again, okay?”

Slowly, Malcolm nods.

And then he asks, “And...what if I did?”

Gil tries not to visibly react to that, knows anything but neutral will break Malcolm further. 

“Then we deal with it,” he says, grasping Malcolm’s neck again. “We. Not just you anymore, okay, kid? We’re all here. We’re all gonna help you through this.”

Malcolm gives a disheartened smile, and says, “I don’t know if you can.”

Gil chokes on his swallow, just a bit, and holds him just a little closer.

"We can. I promise you that. We will. Just you wait."

**x**

Gil stops at the store first, leaving Malcolm in the car with himself and _John_ because Malcolm is too injured to go inside and too embarrassed to beg Gil to stay. But as frightening as the ten or so minutes is, where he curls into himself best he can and tries to ignore the pokes and prods, Gil comes back with everything Malcolm could want, more than enough to make him smile.

Twizzlers, his favorite flavors of sparkling water and Jell-O, a box of sweet crackers that he likes, and a candy bar. 

“I’m going to get fat,” Malcolm mutters, crinkling the candy’s wrapper in his hand as his stomach growls. 

“You’ve _never_ been fat,” Gil says. “And right now, you look like you need to go back to the hospital. Don’t make me do that, okay? I will.”

Malcolm winces and nods. He eats two strings of licorice, managing not to gag on them _only_ because they’re his favorite things, and then reaches for one of the waters. 

“I’m just thirsty,” he says, and Gil eyes him, watches just how much he drinks, and Malcolm can only take a few sips because Gil knows what he's doing. He’s done it before. Drinking until his stomach is full, until his hunger is gone. Once again, Gil knows all his tricks. It’s rather annoying.

He caps the bottle and sighs, putting it in the cupholder, and leans back in the seat. Gil nudges the bag of candy closer with his elbow as he pulls the car out of the lot.

“Your place to get the bird and clothes,” he says. “Then I have to get to work.” 

“I’m coming,” Malcolm says, reluctantly taking another licorice and nibbling on it, keeping it in his mouth as long as he can because it still hurts to swallow.

“You are _not,_ ” Gil says, _laughing,_ and Malcolm crosses his arms.

“You can stay at my place, or yours, or I can drop you off at your mother’s. Only choices you got, kid.”

“Fine,” Malcolm mutters. “But her name is _Sunshine_. Not _the bird._ ”

“I know it is. Better be careful. She took a liking to Dani, I heard.”

Malcolm knows it’s a joke. But he’s aching inside, all the time, and for some reason he blurts out, “What if she forgot about me?” and _whimpers,_ suddenly on the verge of tears.

“Oh, hell—Bright, that’s—not what I meant, not at all. Birds are smart, aren’t they? Sure they are. You know that. Lots of, uh, bird facts, right? I don’t know, but she missed you. We all did.”

Malcolm wipes his eyes and nods. John reaches around the seat and glides his hand under Malcolm’s shirt, and Malcolm gasps, jerking back.

Gil's foot twitches on the break. “What? What happened?”

“A pain!” Malcolm whispers, “Just—” He brushes at his chest, tucks his knees up, and covers his mouth with a hand. “Just a pain. I just want to go home."

"I know."

' _Home, little Malcolm...you always cried to go home. So precious and pretty when you cry.'_

Malcolm presses harder against his lips, and is silent the rest of the trip there.

He finds himself staring up at his apartment in something akin to dread long after Gil pulls over, and only when Gil asks what's wrong does he realize why.

"I thought…" he says softly. "I thought...I'd never come home again."

Gil gives him the most pitied look Malcolm has ever seen, says, "Oh, kid…" and makes Malcolm cringe.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asks, holding the keys out, and Malcolm takes them carefully.

"N...no. I want to go myself."

_No, I need to prove I'm not afraid._

_I'm not a child._

_I'm…_

_God, what am I?_

_'Mine,'_ John purrs, and Malcolm shoves the door open and gets out.

His walk upstairs is slow. 

He never, ever thought he’d come back here.

By the time he’s unlocking the door at the top, there are tears in his eyes. 

He hears Sunshine chirping even before he opens it, and he cries out. The tears start to fall, uncontrollable, and he’s heedless of the pain in his feet and body and _mind_ as he rushes to her cage, opening it.

“My _baby,_ ” he weeps, and she sings happily, flying around the room before landing on his hand, hopping up to his shoulder and settling against his neck.

He drops to the floor, cradling her to his skin. John laughs at him, calls him pathetic, and he doesn’t care.

“I missed you, I missed you,” he whispers, kissing over her feathers. “Oh, my pretty girl! My beautiful little birdy!” 

She kisses at his face, nips away tears and makes him laugh for what feels like the first time in his entire life. 

“They took good care of you, didn’t they? Oh, yes they did. Yes they did. I missed you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to leave. Please forgive me. Please.”

She keeps singing, flies around again and then hops on his head, and Malcolm cries harder, curling onto his side. She tucks up against his neck again, under his chin, and he tries to breathe, to calm down, to relax. 

‘ _Such a pretty bird...such a shame you flew away from me.’_

Malcolm doesn’t open his eyes. He just holds Sunshine, listens to her singing happily against him. 

“He took me,” he says. “That’s why. I would never leave you. But he made me.”

‘ _Made you do so much, little Malcolm.’_

“He _hurt me,_ ” he cries. “Sunshine, I hurt. I hurt so much. I’m seeing him and he won’t go away. Please...I just want him to go away...he’s dead, I k-killed him. I’m—I killed _her, too._ Mighta—might have killed _more."_

_‘You’re such a beautiful little murderer, my beloved._ _My good little boy._ ’

“It hurts. It hurts. God, he won’t—he won’t stop...he’s...I feel _disgusting,_ he did—he did things, and—”

‘ _Nothing you didn’t want.’_

“—and I just wanted to come home. That’s all. That’s all. I thought—I-I th-thought—I thought I’d never see you again. He was—he was gonna take me away. He _did._ He tried to take me further. Away. So far away. He tried to—he fuckin’ tried to—”

He can’t continue. Sunshine is wet with his tears and still she stays, ruffling her feathers, and he loves her so much. His birdy. His beautiful baby birdy. 

‘ _Think of what we could have done together,_ ’ John says, sitting beside him now to stroke his back, and Malcolm doesn’t know if it would make any difference at all whether he moved or stayed here, shaking and shivering and choking on his sobs under his hallucination’s touch.

‘ _We could have been something for Him. Something beautiful, together. Oh, my Malcolm.’_

John leans over him, and Malcolm screams, scares Sunshine and scrambles away, only able to get to his knees as he looks desperately around with wide eyes for his love.

“No! No, I’m sorry! Come back—”

John grabs her out of the air, takes his knife, and—

Malcolm screams again, far louder, so loud his voice gives out.

“ _No!”_

Sunshine flits down, lands on his shoulder. Malcolm gasps for air, chest heaving, holds her tight.

Just him and Sunshine, alive and breathing and—

Alone.

Alone.

_Alone._

Suddenly he aches to leave. He aches to be with Gil, with _anyone._ Just not here. Not alone.

Not with _John._

He drags himself to his feet, grabs a suitcase to shove clothes into, his toothbrush, his own shampoo, his hairbrush, his…

Normal things. 

His normal things that he never, ever thought he would see again, _use_ again, need again. 

He’s here. Alive. _Away._

And yet, he doesn’t think he will ever be the same. 

_Nineteen days._

Practically nothing.

_Entirely_ nothing.

Nothing.

It was nothing. 

_It has to be nothing._

He packs Sunshine’s food, his coffee press, his mouthguards. He shakes hard as he shoves his restraints in, not caring to look at them too long, and then zips the suitcase up. He grabs his two favorite suits, tossing their bags over his shoulder. He takes his warmest coats, his most pressed undershirts, his best ties and scarves, and drips more stupid tears down onto his most expensive shoes. He touches his counter, his bed, looks around at the place he never believed he’d be able to come back to.

He coaxes Sunshine back into her cage, takes it in one hand and the handle of the bag in the other, and locks the place up.

Home. Home, but not yet safe.

He can come back here...later. When he feels better. When the idea of being alone, even with Sunshine, isn’t the worst possible thing he could ever possibly think of.

Halfway down the stairs, his suitcase hits the back of his foot, sends pain so sharp through his leg that he drops everything but Sunshine’s cage, clutching it against his chest and crying out as he slides a few steps down and mercifully stops.

Reminds him of the cellar steps—reminds him of John dragging him down them—please, no, please, _no_ —

The crash of his case at the bottom is _loud._ The main entrance’s door is still open, and only his apartment is sound-proofed. 

He doesn’t know how Gil is there so fast. “Bright! What happened?”

He manages a smile, leaning into Gil’s hand as it cups his cheek. “I just—I tripped…”

“Are you hurt?”

“Yeah,” he hiccups. “Hurts.”

“What does?”

Malcolm sniffles, starting to cry again against his will. Always against his will. Everything fucking against his will. “...Me.”

Gil leans forward, presses his forehead down against the top of Malcolm’s head, and Malcolm nuzzles against his chest.

Not this. This...this is okay. This doesn't hurt. This is good. This is what he wants.

“I want to go,” he says.

“Let me help. Just hold onto Sunshine, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Malcolm mumbles as Gil picks him up, carrying him out to the car and then going back for things.

“Be careful,” he says, pointing to his suits as Gil puts everything in the backseat. “You have to—on the hanger.”

Gil laughs and nods, hanging them up. “Now you’re sounding like yourself again. How much did these cost all together, huh?”

“Just the two?” Malcolm asks, reaching his finger into the cage for Sunshine to nuzzle. “Twenty-five, maybe. They’re my favorite.”

“Twenty-five grand,” Gil says, sounding breathless, and whistles. “Goddamn, city boy.”

“I’d buy you one if you’d _let_ me,” Malcolm insists.

“I like my suits just fine, thank you.”

Malcolm looks him and his synthetic-fabric suit over and says, “I guess.”

Gil frowns, glancing down at himself, and holds his arms out. “What? Are you telling me I look cheap?”

“You look fine, Gil,” Malcolm says, smiling weakly. “You look good. I-I...I missed you.”

Gil’s expression sombers. He closes the door, gets back in the driver’s seat, and wraps an arm around him to pull him close.

“I missed you, too, kid.” He pauses, and Sunshine chirps at him. “She’s not loud, is she? I need my sleep.”

Malcolm happily coos at her, and shakes his head. “She’s a good girl. The best girl. My good girl. Aren’t you?”

‘ _Aren’t you mine?’_

Malcolm jerks, hissing in a gasp, and pulls away from Gil, from _John._ He swallows hard, wincing, and then clears his throat and says, “I...I’m really tired.”

“You sure you want to stay at my place? You’ll be okay alone? I’m serious, Bright, if you show up at the precinct in one of those suits I’m going to lose it.”

“I won’t,” he says. “It hurts too much to walk. But I might call you...if...if that's okay...?”

“Anytime. And...you _could_ call Jessica…”

“I don’t know. Maybe I will.”

Gil must figure he won’t, and is probably right, because he gets a text from his mother ten minutes after Gil drops him off that says _Gil_ called, that she’s coming over, and he sighs.

He's not sure that _isn't_ what he wants, but the second she's ringing the doorbell and he opens it, taking in her frustrated expression and forced smile, he's a little more certain.

" _Malcolm,_ " she says, in that way she always does, and Malcolm flinches.

_'Does Mommy know how dirty you are, little Malcolm? Does she know you're a murderer?'_

"Come, love. Grab your things."

Malcolm tilts his head. "What?"

She looks around Gil's place in disapproval. "You need to come home with me, where I can take care of you. Adolpho's waiting, I'll take your bags—"

Malcolm shakes his head. He knows that means she's _hired_ someone to do it, and that's not what he wants. That's not the same as Gil. "Want to stay, please."

"Malcolm—"

"Please…" he chokes out, somehow. "Call me Bright."

Jessica blinks. "What?"

Malcolm squirms. He winces, and looks away, and then looks down entirely. "I don't...want...please. Please call me Bright."

"I don't understand," she says, as if Malcolm _does_. "Why? You know I think that alias is ridiculous...what's wrong with your name?

"Nothing! Just...just for a while. A little while. Please. Just a while, _Mother_."

Jessica's breath catches, and she looks down at his hand, trembling by his side even as he curls it into a fist.

"Bright," she murmurs, and then nods. "Okay."

Malcolm hadn't known he'd been holding his breath, and his exhale out is harsh, his inhale is nearly a gasp. He hadn't expected her to agree so _easily_.

And yet, she still insists. "Come on, love."

He can't. Not there. Not to the worst place he can think of. Would he have to sleep in his childhood room, where his father put him to sleep after drugging him again and again? Where he hurt himself in his night terrors? Where he woke up screaming for years?

"Please don't make me go back," he whispers. "Not—not safe. Need to be safe. Please."

"Gil's safer than I am, to you?" she asks, painfully sharp, and he hugs himself tight.

_Maybe._

_Y…_

_Yes._

"Please, I don't know," he says. "I'm just...I'm tired, I…"

"Malcolm— _Bright—_ you've been clinging to him for a week. Please. That's _enough_ . Do you know how much I missed you? How much Ainsley did? We cried every night, Malcolm! We thought you were dead! She's temporarily moved back home because of it. She'll be there to help you, too. We missed you so _much,_ my love, _please…_ "

He shakes his head. He's an adult. He can choose where he stays.

"No," he says, and then brokenly adds, "Please."

"No," she replies. "You're coming home. Get your things. This isn't your choice."

_'What_ is _these days, little Malcolm?'_

He shuts his eyes tight, tries to block them both out.

"No," he whimpers. "I—'

"Bright—"

_'Little boy—'_

"Momma, I _killed her!"_ he suddenly cries out, and drops to sit down right where he is to sob. Sunshine flies down to perch on his shoulder, and he turns his head against her.

Jessica finally stops. She _stops._ She goes quiet, but things are somehow still too damn loud, and Malcolm has to cover his ears. 

"Please, please, please—I'm sorry—"

_'Look at her. She's disgusted. You're disgusting, my beloved, to everyone but me—'_

"No—"

_'My sweet little murderer.'_

_"No!"_

Jessica reels back, heels catching on carpet and nearly tripping her. She shuts the door, and so, so carefully kneels beside Malcolm.

“My love…”

“I killed her,” he says. “The Girl. The Girl. I—I didn’t mean to. But I killed her. I remember. And—and—and I—I stabbed—s-someone—D-Daddy made me—" He can barely speak, grabbing out for her hand, holding Sunshine tight against his neck with the other. 

“Momma, I killed him, too. He hurt me. He _hurt_ me. He hurt Dad—he hurt him...I had to...I _had to_...J-John was going to kill him. So I killed him first.”

“Malcolm,” she murmurs, and he curls away from her. “Bright, I’m sorry, _Bright._ Come on. Come here. Come here.” 

He doesn’t want to. Not really. But the second he does he’s melting into her embrace, clinging onto her and sobbing into her shoulder as Sunshine moves down to nuzzle her way into his shirt, tickling against his chest.

“My sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart. Please don’t cry. Please stop crying.”

“I-I c-c-can’t—” Malcolm chokes out, grabbing onto her. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—I killed—her—I killed—I’m a—a—I’m a murde—I’m a—h-help me, Momma—”

“Oh, my baby,” she says, sitting down to gather his shaking body into her lap, starting to rock him, rubbing his arms. “Ssh. Ssh. Bright, my Bright. Calm down. I’m here. I’m here. I promise. I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Gil—” Malcolm gasps out, because he _needs him,_ and Jessica holds him tighter, too tight. It doesn’t feel right, she never, ever, ever hugs him, and yet…

And yet it does. It feels like what he should have been getting all along, the way Jackie used to hold him.

He remembers being squished between them, Jackie and Gil, as they cooed and tickled and _loved_ him whenever he was here, played with him and built blanket forts and cooked pancakes and _God,_ he just wants a mother who _loves him._

“Momma,” he says. 

“Momma’s here,” she replies, kissing his temple, and her face is wet from tears. “I’m here. I missed you so much, baby. My baby, my love...ssh. Ssh. It's okay, now. You're safe. I promise. We missed you so much…"

"Missed you—I thought he was—he was gonna t-take me, k-keep me—keeps sayin' _mine,_ make him stop, please—"

"Ssh," she says, keeps shushing him because she _doesn't want to hear,_ he knows, so he shuts his _pretty mouth_ and just cries against her until he can't anymore, until he falls into something vaguely resembling sleep.

When he wakes with a jerk—but surprisingly not a scream—he's on Gil's couch, under three different blankets and still cold, forever cold, never ever warm again. He cranes his neck around to see his mother dozing in the nearest chair, head supported by her hand. 

He doesn’t know what time it is, and that bothers him. Makes him flinch, makes him remember the curtains up over the windows and John stealing his watch and the dark, dark, dark cellar, being down there so long he somehow lost track of _nineteen days._

_Nineteen. Only nineteen. Nothing at all._

How long had The Girl been Martin’s captive? How long had John’s other victims been tortured by him? How many others were there, that not even Malcolm had suspected? 

Four bodies already found; one The Girl, the other three thus far unknown. Was one of them the woman Martin had forced him to push his knife into? Someone else he couldn’t even remember? Someone he’d never seen? 

What he’d gone through was _nothing._

Nothing he didn’t deserve. 

He exhausted everyone. His mother sleeps for hours, never moving more than a lean one way or the other, and he watches over her with Sunshine sleeping on his shoulder, flinches every time John hurts or kills her but remains stubbornly on guard for any danger— _real_ danger.

_‘She regrets you,’_ John says. ‘ _She’s lying. She never missed you.’_

Malcolm doesn’t give any response. John tsks and stabs her again. 

‘ _Talk to me, little Malcolm. I miss you.’_

He doesn’t. He refuses.

So John stabs him instead, and Malcolm only just stifles his scream with his hands.

Eventually, she stirs. She startles at the sight of Malcolm staring her down, and he flinches from that, makes her laugh a little, perhaps at the absurdity of their lives. 

“Darling,” she says, and, without asking, he crawls up into her lap as Sunshine flits away. She doesn’t protest, maybe to prove she’s as worthy of it as Gil even if she doesn’t want it, and Malcolm doesn’t care what makes her do it. He just sighs happily, feels _loved_ by her for the first time in so, so long. 

‘ _She doesn’t love you.’_

But she has to. She takes care of him. She stays there with him until _he_ wants to move, until he’s finally so desperately hungry that he can’t stand it anymore. And then she fixes him soup, gives it to him with the crackers and winces in sympathy when he doesn’t bother using a spoon, tilting the bowl up to his mouth to down it that way, careless to the burning on his tongue.

“My love,” she murmurs, sitting across from him, looking at his bright red, swelling lips, and Malcolm covers them with the back of his hand, grunting. 

“I want to stay,” he says finally. “Please. I’m going back...to my place...tomorrow. Or...or maybe the next day, or—”

“I want you to be happy,” she interrupts. “I want you to feel safe. I was wrong. If you feel safest here, then…” She sighs, glancing up and around. “You should stay. I won’t pull you away from that. I shouldn’t. That would be wrong. I just...want what’s best for you. But...it’s always been Gil.”

She crosses her arms. Malcolm can see she’s upset, yet trying to hide it just for him. Something’s changed. Usually she wouldn’t bother.

He's distracted, trying to read her face without quite making eye-contact because it _still_ makes him writhe, and then there's the sudden sound of a lock clicking, of a door opening somewhere close—

He cries out. He drops down to the floor and covers his head, back on the cold concrete of the cellar, chains rattling around his wrists as he shivers.

‘ _And how are we feeling today, hmm, little Malcolm? Any better? No? What a shame. Well...let’s see if I can’t make you feel worse.’_

Pain lancing over the soles of his feet, his forearms, the switch burning and stinging its way up all exposed skin and—

_‘I’m bearing you for punishment, little one. Nothing else. Not yet.’_

So feverish, so _tired,_ can’t remember—John’s dirty fingers undoing his buttons—one, two, three—

_“No!”_ Malcolm slaps at John’s disgusting, prying hands, fighting against them as they grab onto his arms, pull at his shirt. “Stop! Stop, _John, no!_ ”

“Bright!”

_Not John, not John, not John—_

He gasps air into burning lungs, forces his eyes open and sees Gil and Jac—and his mother, sees them instead of John and remembers.

Safe, safe, safe, safe…

Wildly looking around, he says, “ _John—_ ” 

“He's dead, Bright." 

Malcolm stares up at him, into hazel eyes so close they reflect his own. "Wh-what?" 

Gil cups his cheeks, and Malcolm gasps again from the tenderness of it.

"They found his body. I came home to tell you. The DNA is a match."

It still doesn't quite register. Maybe it can't. "...What?"

"John Watkins is gone, Bright. He's dead."

"Dead," Malcolm chokes out, and then looks over to where John's leaning against the wall, smirking, _watching_. "He's—"

Gil gently pulls his head back to meet their eyes again. "Are you seeing him? Is that where you keep looking?"

Malcolm whimpers, reaching up to place one of his hands over Gil's, and then shakes his head. "No. No, it's not—"

Gil brings him closer, into a hug, and says, "He's dead. I promise you, Bright."

"I killed him," Malcolm weeps into his shoulder. "I'm—just like them."

_'I'm so proud of you, my beloved_.'

_'So proud, my boy.'_

No. Not both of them. _No._ He'll slit his fucking wrists before he—

"You're nothing like them," Jessica says, gently stroking his hair, and then hugs him from behind, wrapping her arms around both of them.

And Malcolm hasn't felt so completely loved, so _safe,_ since Jackie was alive.

He hasn't felt so warm, maybe in his entire life. Certainly not since John.

Malcolm closes his eyes, and lets them hold him, rock him, coo to him. He lets them coddle him, be _careful_ with him, try to keep him together as he shakes. 

He knows it's not going to last. It never does.

But just for now...he lets himself be okay.


	25. Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! HI! Check out the first chapter, my best friend drew cover art for me! I'm so in love with it! I gave her a sketch and an idea and the way she took off with it cured my depression. It's based off the religious sculpture The Pieta/the parallel's to it in Ch.16...it's incredible. The symbolism got me FUCKED UP okay and I deadass didn't realize it until after I wrote it.
> 
> Also! Sorry for the wait, these past few weeks have been really hard for me. I hope this is an enjoyable chapter.......but also y'know what? This story seems to be a bit...lacking...in the excitement factor. Might have to change that next chapter... :)
> 
> TW for very brief (past) non-con touching and Hallucina-John still being creepy, and some brief suicidal ideation.

Sitting on the couch, Jessica looks down at her glass, rubbing her finger over the rim before downing it and pouring another.

She has such a damn headache, and her son isn’t making it better, never does.

He’s asking to go to that _Gil's_ house again. Of _course_ he is. He rarely does anything else.

She doesn’t want him to. She wants him to stay. She doesn’t have anything planned to do with them, doesn’t even really _want_ to, but she just doesn’t want him to _go_. 

He always leaves her. Everyone always leaves her. Martin. Malcolm. 

_Martin. Malcolm._

One and the same in her head, more often than not.

"Why don't you love me anymore?"

"Wh...what?" Her son looks up with big blue eyes and a face so similar to his father that she can never go too long without averting her gaze. 

"You never stay _here_ anymore. It's always off to _Gil._ To _Jackie_. I just...it feels like…"

"Mother…" Malcolm seems to struggle for words for a moment, then says, "You don't _want_ me here."

Jessica doesn't like that he's right. Doesn't like that the longer she looks at that face the sadder she gets, the more she wants to drink.

She wants so badly to be the mother they need, the one they want. But she simply can't be. 

“I want you, Malcolm,” she says, patting the seat beside her. Malcolm’s face lights up, and he smiles softly, climbing up onto the couch.

“Mother, I _love_ you,” he whispers, nuzzling into side, and he sounds so _desperate._

He wants her to coo it back to him, again and again. He wants her to cuddle him for hours like his father used to.

But that’s never been who she is. That’s never been what she _does._ That was always _his_ job.

_Martin._

The predator she let around her _children._ The predator Malcolm keeps _visiting._

She _does_ love them. She loves them with all her heart. 

But she resents Malcolm for his need to continue to see him. And as much as Malcolm and Ainsley want her attention, there’s nothing Jessica can do about how she feels. She can’t do what they want, _be_ who they want. There’s nothing she wants to do more than drink, than take pills, than slip away from reality for as long as she possibly can.

They’ll be raised by nannies, just like she was. They’ll turn out fine, just like she has. 

“Mother?” Malcolm asks, and Jessica spares him a pat on the head. 

“I love you,” she replies. “I do, Malcolm…”

Malcolm pushes his nose up close to her neck, tries to curl closer, and Jessica leans away.

Malcolm looks like it breaks him. 

Malcolm looks like Martin. 

_Martin._

_Oh, Martin._

She raises her hand, reaches out for her purse, for her tin of pills. 

And Malcolm flinches, as if she’d gone to strike him. 

Jessica freezes, hand midair. Malcolm’s eyes widen a little, and he shrinks as if he’s done something wrong, as if he’s in trouble.

As if she’s going to yell at him for his fear of her.

“Malcolm…” she murmurs. Through her head flashes all the times she’s manhandled him in the past, blurred and drunken memories, and it’s too many. It’s surely not all of them. “I wasn’t…”

“I-I’m sorry,” he says.

He thinks it’s his fault.

But it isn’t. 

He just looks so much like _him._ It’s so easy to be angry with him. It’s so easy. 

Everything was never meant to be this _hard._

“I love you,” she says. “You know that, don’t you? _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry I lose my temper. I’m sorry I’m not the mother you want, I can’t…” 

She chokes, starting to tear up, and wipes at her eye with a knuckle. “Malcolm...come here.”

Malcolm does. She knows with terrible certainty that he would do anything she asked, no matter what she did to him. He loves her too much, _needs_ her when he can’t have his father or…

Gil. Always Gil, these days.

“You can go,” she says, giving Malcolm a little squeeze before pulling away again, and he looks dazed when she does. “Gil. Stay the weekend. Okay?"

"Okay," he says. He tries to get another hug out of her, but she shakes her head, gets her purse and waves him off. 

"Go pack. I'll have Adolfo waiting outside when you're done."

"Yes, Mother."

Always so excited to leave. Always so excited to go to Gil. 

A better father.

And _Jackie_. 

A woman she'd only talked to a few times, that she was beginning to loathe.

She'd been the one Malcolm spoke to first.

Not his mother, _her._ Her and Gil. Always Gil.

Never Jessica.

Maybe rightfully so. But no matter. That's something to worry and think about later. After.

She tucks a pill under her tongue, calls for their driver, and then leans back and blissfully never hears her son step out the front door.

**x**

Jessica feels a bit like she's free falling, though she knows the floor of Gil's kitchen remains steady beneath her.

Gil is sitting just a foot away, one knee against hers. He’s holding Malcolm's hand, but Malcolm is fully cradled in Jessica's lap, somewhere she doesn't plan on ever letting him out of, a place she never allowed him as a child, even when he begged for it.

How awfully sick and small her son looks, sleeping in her arms, head lolled on her shoulder, tear stains dried down his cheeks.

How awfully _guilty_ Gil looks in front of her, as if he'd tortured Malcolm himself.

He repeatedly runs his thumb over the back of Malcolm's hand, over his wounded, bruised wrist, and then finally reaches up to rub his eyes, the first time either of them have moved since Malcolm fell asleep.

No. Since Malcolm had cried himself to complete exhaustion between them, and then at long last passed out.

Her baby, her Malcolm, her son. She's never felt worse for ever bringing him pain. 

And she's brought him so, so much. Far too much.

"Gil.”

When he looks up, the circles under his eyes are just as dark as Malcolm's.

"I want to know what happened.”

Gil's breath catches. He comes across downright terrified, suddenly. 

"Jess…" His voice is nearly a choke, and he swallows hard. 

Oh, God.

"No, no, I—I can't," she says, and Gil breathes again. 

"He was beaten… _relentlessly_ …my sweet boy." She holds him that much closer, and though his lips part slightly from the shift he doesn't even twitch, so deeply asleep that nothing but a night terror can wake him now. So deadly still...just like in the hospital, where she was afraid he'd never wake up again at all. "My sweet, sweet baby boy."

She smiles, just a little, and then stifles a sob. "He was born...perfect. Gil, you should have seen him. The most beautiful little blue-eyed boy I'd ever seen. His skin was so soft. Not even a freckle." She thinks about all the photos of Martin holding him, all the photos she threw in the fireplace, gone forever. No one will ever be able to see what she did, not ever again. 

Gil smiles. He must be imagining it, but he'll never know just _how_ precious.

And neither had she, really. Not enough. She hadn't appreciated it while she could. Martin had been the one to take care of Malcolm, to bond with him while she laid in bed in a careless depression for _months_. That _monster_ had been the one to raise him, and she's to blame for letting him.

"And now…" she says, "...now he's... _covered_ in scars. He was already—he was so happy when the surgeries finally started delivering results. When he could manage to fold up his sleeves sometimes, when he was brave enough, and no one noticed them. He was so _proud._ And now…"

Gil shakes his head, lowers it. "They'll fade, Jess. He can get them treated again, and—”

"They'll never be gone," she says. "Inside or out. My God, Gil…look at him.”

She tries to roll his shirt up, and Gil reaches out to grasp her hand, stopping her.

"Don't," he says.

Her hand relaxes in his.

As much as she hates to admit it, she doesn't want him to let go.

She thinks back to her hatred of Jackie, and, not for the first time, wonders if she'd simply wished to _be_ her. 

Loved. Held. Admired. 

Martin had done all of that, quelled her desires and needs, for the first years. And then she’d thought he was seeing other women, and hadn’t enjoyed his touch quite the same anymore.

And then she’d found out he wasn’t a good man, and never had been.

But Gil...Gil was, _is,_ a good man. 

And before she can stop herself, she says, "He should have been yours."

Gil blinks. Once, twice, and again. He stares down at Malcolm, and then finally up at her.

"Mine?" he asks. 

"Yours," she says. "Your son. And if not mine, too, then Jackie's."

"Jess…"

"He deserved what I never gave him," she goes on. "He deserved the love you both had for him. Martin...was the one who did that. I was never...and after the arrest...my God, he...he just…the older he became, the more…”

"He looks like him," Gil says quietly. 

Jessica smiles, tears in her eyes. "I've never been able to see anyone else." 

"But he's _not_ him. He's Malcolm."

"And I love him," Jessica says. "I love him _dearly._ But for those first few years, the most critical in his life…"

She hesitates. "I'm not sure that I was sober enough to. All I did was drink. I was high, always. I hurt him, more than once."

Gil's brows come together, and she realizes he didn't know. Malcolm had never told him? Not once? He'd been _protecting_ her, even after she hurt him?

"Jess…" His voice is quiet. "I don't think you're evil. I don't think you—"

"I hit him," she interrupts, and Gil tenses. "Not—often. But I remember. I struck him for wanting to go to you, Gil. I have—" She taps her head, clutching Malcolm tighter. "I only have the slightest memories of it. I've blocked it out, but I know it happened. More than once."

And she remembers his face, when he sprawled across the floor, the time they'd gotten into an argument, and he'd said Jackie was his mother, not her, and she couldn't control herself. The utter betrayal, the terror, the _shame._ The way he'd sobbed against her when she held him, apologizing. The mark it'd left on his cheek for _days._

She hates herself for it. She did then, and does now.

She hates herself for so many, many things.

"You know you did wrong," Gil says. "You're trying to make amends."

"That doesn't make it go away."

"No," Gil agrees. "Not at all."

She wonders if he likes her at all anymore, can't blame him if he doesn't. Perhaps the only person who _could_ have loved her was Martin. 

And honestly, she knows that's what she deserves.

She touches Malcolm's head, strokes through his hair. "And now...he's been hurt again. _Tortured_. How is he going to get through this?"

"I love him, Jess," Gil says. "More than anything. I've always loved him like my own. He wasn't alone then, and he's not alone now."

"That's why he's always wanted you," she says, glancing up and around. "And that's why it's best he does stay here. I love him, Gil, but I can never be what she was for him. What _you_ were. What you are."

She breathes in deep, exhales completely.

"But I'd like to hold him a bit longer.”

"Jess...you can hold him as long as you want. Stay the night, even. Take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch."

She imagines it, ever briefly. The house is nothing like anything she'd ever live in, unacceptable really, but...to wake up to Gil…

She shakes herself. “I shouldn’t.”

“You can. Only if you want. But I think…” He touches Malcolm’s hair, gently. He looks troubled, weighed down with more knowledge of it all than she has the capability of processing. “Maybe you weren’t there for him then, but you can be now, when he needs you more than ever.”

“He...he said _Daddy_ ,” she says, as if it's something Gil wouldn't believe, as if he doesn't know that Malcolm's regressed into something far more like a child than he should be. "He keeps...calling me..."

“I know. He needs to go back to therapy as soon as we can get him there. I’m...worried, Jess. I’m really worried. He won’t eat, he’s _terrified…_ ”

“We,” Jessica murmurs. She thinks about just how nice it would be if that were true. 

If she could have been Gil’s. If she could have been happy for more time than she was. If she could have been for both of her children what she always wanted to be, but never could.

Gil shifts, almost like he’s uncomfortable. Maybe he should be. There’s no way she should be thinking about herself right now, about dreams that could never happen.

This is about Malcolm. 

Everything she’s ever done should have always been about Malcolm, in his best interest, and then maybe he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“Is this my fault?” she asks quietly, but she already knows the answer.

Gil is quick to tell her it's not, but she doesn’t believe him. 

“If it’s anyone’s…” Gil says, and he pauses. He swallows hard, shakes his head, and goes on with, “It’s John Watkins.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?” 

Gil looks away again. “He was unrecognizable. They identified him with DNA.”

Jessica frowns, glancing him over. He’s hiding something, and she won’t stand for it. “What else?”

Gil looks so distraught, Jessica almost doesn't want to know anymore.

“He was tortured,” Gil murmurs finally. "Bled out."

“You don’t think…”

“He would have been justified. The things Watkins did…” 

“Stop.” She pets Malcolm’s hair out of his face, cups his chin, strokes his cheek. “He may have killed him, if he’s not remembering wrong, but he did _not_ torture him.”

Because that sounded like something Martin would do.

And Malcolm _isn’t him._

“Dr. Whitly was there, too,” Gil says. “I don’t think it was Malcolm. With the state he was in...no. No, there's no way.”

There's no way. Not a chance. 

Not the same. They were _not the same._

Gil is silent. Finally, he picks himself up, clears his throat, and asks, “Would you like something to drink?” 

“Whatever you have that’s alcoholic,” she says, and then sighs. “Or I suppose...I shouldn’t, here.”

“...I can do coffee.” 

“Coffee’s fine, Gil. Thank you.”

“Hey.”

She looks up, and his expression is so tender, his smile so soft. It melts her heart.

"We’re going to take care of him, okay? He’s going to be okay.”

"I know," she says. “He has to be.”

He _has_ to be.

He _will_ be. He will. 

God, she hopes he will.

**x**

Malcolm feels like there's an ice-pick digging behind his right eye when he wakes.

He blinks hard, looking up at the ceiling of the cellar, and flinches as pain shoots across the sole of his foot. 

"Pay attention," John hisses. "God will cure you if you just _listen_ to me read His Word."

Too tired. Too damn tired. His eyes flicker closed again, even as the switch hits him, making him flinch and whine.

_Just wanna go home…_

"Your home is with me," John says. "Open your eyes before I really hurt you." 

Malcolm only just manages it. John sits by his feet, one hand holding the switch, the other with his Bible balanced against his thigh.

Malcolm, vaguely, recalls the last time John was down here, and the time before. Reading to him, whipping him in between passages, demanding attention his fever keeps taking away. 

“God will help you.” He sets the switch down, reaches out, rubs Malcolm’s knee. “Let Him in. Let _me_ in, to guide you to Him."

He goes back to reading, words that don’t even register in Malcolm’s mind. His hand squeezes Malcolm’s thigh, and Malcolm whimpers, wants him to stop and can’t speak, knows it won't do a damn thing anyways.

The chains are heavy around his wrists, and he’s so _cold,_ because John has taken his blanket again, undone his shirt, he—why does John keep—touching him— _stop—_

Fingers trailing up and down, touching over his chest, his stomach, dirtying him, his _soul._

“Ssh, little Malcolm…be a good boy...let your savior admire his disciple."

Lips against his neck, kisses pressing up to his jaw. John leaned over him, too close, breath hot against his skin.

_No, no, no, stop—_

He can’t do anything. He’s frozen, from sickness and fear, forced to trust John’s promise not to do anything more, not yet.

_Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._

John _admires_ him, purrs over him, until he tires of it, pulling back, taking the switch in his hand once more.

“You’ve made _me_ a sinner,” John says. “But I think He can forgive that. We are His favorites, after all. And you are mine.”

He goes back to reading, to punishment, and Malcolm, mercifully, slips back into the place where he can’t feel the pain.

At least, not as much as before.

**x**

His chains are rattling, hitting the concrete loudly, and Malcolm screams before he’s even awake. He screams, thrashes with strength he didn’t know he had in his illness, and feels hands on him, pinning him down, trying to—

  
_‘Ssh, little Malcolm—'_

He finds his voice, and cries out, “Help!” as if anyone else is here, as if he’s _home,_ as if he can be helped by anyone but _God_ at this point—

“Bright! Bright, it’s me, it’s—”

“Gil!” he gasps, trying to pry his eyes open, knowing Gil isn’t really _there,_ he’s—

“You’re okay! You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re with me, you’re okay. Bright, open your eyes! You’re safe.”

He jerks on his arms, crying out, metal against metal ringing in his ears. Not safe, he’s not safe, _stop!_

And then the pressure around one wrist is gone. He can move it again, both of them, as much as he wants to, and he blinks hard, sitting up, wildly looking around. 

“Malcolm—” his mother says, kneeling beside Gil, both of them at the side of his bed in the room he used to sleep in, and Malcolm starts to cry, reaching out to both of them and sobbing when they touch him, when he’s allowed to wrap one arm around each and bury his face into Gil’s shoulder.

“You’re safe,” Gil says, breathlessly. “You’re safe.”

“He was—” 

“No. No, he wasn’t. I promise. I promise, Bright. It’s okay.”

Slowly, listening to them soothe him, he relaxes. He sees, on the floor, one of his restraints, and he sucks in a breath. 

Not chains. Not chains.

“What’s…?” he manages, and his mother pets his hair, kisses his temple. 

“You were sleeping, love,” she says. “We put you in bed...maybe we should have left off the restraint…”

Not John. Not the cellar. Just here, in his own restraints. And only _one,_ due to the cast.

He remembers now. He remembers he's at Gil's, and he remembers he's safe.

He remembers he had to break his hand to escape, and that John had stabbed it again and again and again and—

And he cries a bit harder, from relief, from sorrow, from _pain_.

"It hurts—" he chokes out. His back, his chest, his hand—he just can't handle it anymore. "It hurts!" 

"Take the pills," Gil says, " _please_. Bright, please."

Malcolm has no choice. He nods, and downs them as Gil shakes them from the bottles into his palm. He’s trembling, both hands, maybe his entire body, and he finally looks up at them as Jessica rubs his arm, as Gil holds the back of his neck.

Though Gil still has the marks of what Malcolm had done last time he awoke, there’s nothing new on either of them. Malcolm hasn't hurt them again.

“Everything’s okay," Gil reassures him. “Everything’s fine.” 

‘ _Of course it is,’_ John says, sliding a hand over Malcolm’s back. _‘All good, little Malcolm…’_

"Get off!" Malcolm shouts, and it startles away the only touch he wants, makes both Jessica and Gil flinch away, and he’s just too embarrassed, too _ashamed_ , to tell them he wasn't talking to them.

“Oh, love,” Jessica murmurs as more tears cascade down his face, and Malcolm can’t look up. He’s pathetic. _Pathetic. Dirty. So dirty._

“I need a shower,” he says. He needs two. Three. A hundred.

They don’t say anything. They look ashamed, too. 

Oh, God. Had Gil—

Had Gil _told_ her? Did she _know?_

_‘She'd never have touched her dirty little whore of a son again, if she did.'_

He drags himself out of bed. He grabs clean pajamas out of his suitcase they left on the floor, fits a liner over his cast. He finds Sunshine nestled in her cage on the dresser, and doesn’t wake her even though he desperately needs her.

John follows him, all the way to the bathroom, and Malcolm cries against the wall as the shower runs, too afraid to take his clothes off.

_'Why so shy?_ ' John says, stroking his cheek, pulling him into a kiss. ' _You are_ mine, _after all…'_

“I don’t want to be,” Malcolm whimpers, but he doesn't fight. He's too tired, feels like he didn't sleep at all—and he knows damn well there's no point.

Still, he begs, “Get out of my head. _Please._ ”

John grabs his throat, squeezing just enough Malcolm struggles to breathe, and pushes him back against the wall. 

_'Never_.'

"Medications," Malcolm argues. “I'll take different ones. Better ones.”

_'Oh? And how's that worked out so far?'_

"Shut _up._ I'll—"

_'You're going to tell them about me? How about you tell them what I did, while you're at it? Pretty little boy, I_ broke _you, didn't I?"_

"Get the _fuck_ —" Malcolm kicks his foot out, and instead of hitting John, he hits the sink, and he's on the floor even before the pain registers, covering his mouth to muffle his scream.

He has to be quiet. They can't come. They can't see him like this. This pathetic, this _destroyed,_ from nineteen days.

Nineteen.

Just nineteen.

It was _nothing._

He has to—

He has to _stop this._

He braces his forehead on the rug, breathing hard, and scowls, forcing himself back up to his feet. 

“Stop,” he tells himself, digging his nails into his palms. “ _Stop._ ”

He can take a shower. He doesn’t need _help._

_‘You need more help than anyone can give you, little Malcolm.’_

Malcolm takes a breath, ignores John and his stomach-twisting comments, and quietly cries through a shower, pretending as if he’s not hearing them.

As if nothing happened.

As if he’s not scrubbing at dirt and grime and _filth_ put there by John’s hands that will never, ever wash away no matter what he tries.

Gil changes his bandages again afterwards, tells him he’s already looking better, and Malcolm again keeps his eyes closed, knowing Gil is lying.

“Did you…” He swallows. He hears Gil’s breath hitch, like he knows already what Malcolm’s going to ask, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Did you tell her?”

“No,” Gil says. “I didn’t.”

Malcolm should feel relief. Instead he feels more disgust for having to hide secrets, _that_ secret, in the first place.

“I wouldn’t,” Gil says. “You know I wouldn’t, kid, right? Tell anyone?”

Malcolm feels a renewed shame wash over him. He knows that, of course. Why would Gil ever want to bring it up again? 

It’s no one’s business. No one should have known, ever. Malcolm should be dealing with this _alone,_ like he does best.

“ _They_ know,” he mumbles finally, shifting around. He wants to open his eyes, wants to take in the damage, but Gil keeps bumping under his chin with a finger every time it lowers as if to look down, raising it up again. 

He knows damn well he shouldn’t. He should never, ever look at himself again. But it doesn’t stop him from wanting to cause himself the pain of doing it anyways.

“Dani...JT.” 

Gil breathes in deep through his nose. “None of us are _judging_ you, Bright.” 

“No?” Malcolm asks. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Why would we?” He grunts and quickly adds, “Don’t...don’t answer that. I know you think—but it’s not your fault. You were hurt, kid. Tortured. Nothing that happened was anything less. _Nothing.”_

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder. He feels Gil peeling off the band-aid at his chest, and he shuts his eyes tighter.

_Don’t look. Don’t look._

‘ _Look, my beloved. Look what I gifted to you.’_

_No. Please._

Gil sighs. “I know. But we’re gonna get you back to therapy—”

“So she can know, too?” Malcolm scoffs. 

“Bright…”

Malcolm doesn’t give him the chance to continue. “How long do you think it’ll be before the video’s leaked to the press?”

Gil grabs his shoulder. “ _Bright._ I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Can you imagine?” Malcolm goes on, laughing quietly. “That’s what John wanted. He wanted everyone to see. Has my—” He chokes, lurching forward. “Has Dr. Whitly seen?”

“No one’s seen,” Gil says. “No one but me, Dani, JT…”

“Swanson...how many others?”

“No one. No one else, Bright. I swear.”

Malcolm nods. He doesn’t believe that. He thinks the whole precinct’s seen. Gil would lie to protect him. Gil would do anything to protect him. 

Gil shouldn’t protect him, because Malcolm doesn’t deserve to be protected.

He knows what he deserves.

He opens his eyes. Gil tries to stop him, but all he has to do is glance down.

He wants to scream. Nothing comes out. Not a word, not a sound. Gil presses his hand over it, fingers splayed across his chest, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already seen.

He’s already seen, and he wishes he hadn’t. 

“Bright—" Gil manages, and Malcolm chokes out his breath, can’t take another. He grabs Gil’s wrist, pulls it away, and stares down at the healing gashes, the whipping scars that will be on him forever, and _that_ wound, from when John had trailed hands all over his body and then taken a knife to him.

John’s scar. John's _mark._

It's horrific. Lined with black stitches, long and deep, from his collarbone down to the middle of his sternum.

He hadn't…

He hadn't known it was that bad. He'd forgotten, maybe. Ignored it, probably. Had so much more to think about, had so much _pain_ to focus on. And he'd expected, prepared himself, for...something.

But it wasn't this. It wasn't this. 

"Bright,” Gil murmurs, tightly gripping his hand. “It’s okay. There’s surgery, it’s going to fade—”

Malcolm gasps in air, hiccups out a sob. "He—he—" 

"Stop looking, stop—" Gil pulls him forward, wraps his arms around him, and Malcolm trembles against him, staring over his shoulder at John.

"He—" he tries again, and still can't get anything out. He doesn't even know what he's trying to say. He doesn't know what he _can_ say.

But Gil murmurs, "I know," and holds him tight. Gil says, "You're going to be okay," but Malcolm doesn't think he is. 

He doesn't even cry. He _can't._ The tears won't come. 

John smiles at him.

John tells him _you're mine, and now you'll always remember._

Malcolm is scared. That's not something he can live with, not for the rest of his life.

A mark given to him by his torturer, a mark of ownership. A _brand_. 

' _A gift.'_

He's ruined. He's absolutely, completely ruined. No one will ever love him again. 

Judging by his experiences, by _Eve,_ no one could ever love him in the first place.

God, he misses her...he wants her back, he wants... _someone._ Anyone.

Anyone would run from the sight of him, now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Eventually Gil pulls back, finishes bandaging him up, but Malcolm doesn't feel much of it. He's gone numb, staring off somewhere, and it's so much nicer, _safer_ , than feeling.

He finds Gil's hugging him again, but he doesn't care. He feels _nothing,_ and hopes it stays like this forever.

"Hungry?" Gil finally asks, but Malcolm never wants to eat again. He wants to waste away.

But John isn't here to assure that—not physically—and Gil won't let that happen. He fixes breakfast, fills Malcolm's plate, and sits all three of them at the table.

The first thing Malcolm really feels is the burn of the coffee on his tongue. He can tell Gil made it with his press, always trying to please him any way he can.

He drinks it, grateful for the pain, the distraction. Over the rim of the mug, he looks at his mother, at Gil, and feels a pang of something else.

Awkwardness, he thinks is the right word.

They look like a family. He can’t remember the last time he had that. 

Perhaps the first Christmas after the arrest. With Gil and Jackie and his mother and Ainsley, all gathered around the table, however unhappy. 

Still a family. 

He thinks, just for a moment, about how nice that must be. Something he never _truly_ had, not for real. Gil and Jackie were as close as he got. His mother and father were never something he should have loved. His father, who manipulated and used him from birth, who—

God, he can’t remember. So many memories missing. There had to have been signs, he just—he can’t _remember._

He wishes he had the same problem now. He wishes he couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.

_‘But you always will, won’t you?’_

He picks at his food. He doesn’t _want it._ It’s always been the one thing he’s fallen back on for control when he felt he had none, and, especially now, when John’s taken everything else away from him, that’s all he wants. 

He’s not sure it matters. John starved him, too. There’s nothing he can do to himself that is different. He has no control. He has no autonomy. He is a _victim,_ and that’s all.

Jessica pleads for him to eat, bringing him out of his head. 

“Don’t make us hospitalize you again,” she says. “Please. You’ve had a feeding tube. Was it pleasant?”

“No,” Malcolm says quietly. 

"Then _eat."_

He grimaces, pushing it around more and drawing an exasperated sigh from her.

“Few bites at a time,” Gil encourages, reaching out to place a little green candy by his hand, and Malcolm smiles weakly. He remembers all the times Gil has bribed him with it before, and it almost, almost makes things feel normal again.

Hands slide over his shoulders, reminding him. John says, ‘ _Open that pretty mouth for them.’_

He flinches, unable to help it, but he recalls that he’s trying to pretend he’s okay. He _needs_ to be okay. 

So he struggles through the food, struggles through John's comments in his ears, suppressing gags from both. He takes the candy, and it’s comforting on his scorched tongue, coats his sore throat.

Gil smiles at him, and he forces a smile back.

Normal. Normal. He’s okay. Everything’s okay. He’s okay.

In fact, he can prove just how okay he is.

“When do you think I can come back to work?” he asks, and Gil chokes on his coffee. 

Jessica laughs, sharp as John's knife. “Have you got a fever? No, Malcolm. _Bright._ Absolutely not. You’ll never work there again. Tell him, Gil.”

Gil is wide-eyed, trapped under the sudden demand, and sets his mug down.

“Not now,” he says, clearing his throat as his voice croaks. “Bright...not anytime soon.”

“Never _again,_ ” Jessica snaps. “ _Right?_ You wouldn’t _want_ him to come back after you got him _kidnapped,_ would you?”

Gil flinches, just noticeable enough, and looks down at his unfinished plate. Malcolm’s never seen him look so _sad,_ so guilty.

All because Malcolm had gotten himself kidnapped in the first place.

“Mother,” Malcolm says softly. “Please.”

She scoffs, and then turns to take his hand. He very nearly pulls it away. “My love...I _love_ you. But you’re being _stupid._ ” 

“It’s not his fault. It’s…” He lowers his head. “It’s mine.” 

“That’s not—”

“It’s mine!” Malcolm shouts. “It’s mine, and I—”

_‘Deserved it, little sinner,’_ John says, sliding his hand between Malcolm’s legs, and Malcolm jumps up out of the seat, knocks the plate in front of him to the tile and shatters it. He cries out, staggering back, and leans back against the counter, chest heaving as he stares down at the pieces.

“Sorry,” he says, “Gil...Momma, I’m sorry…”

“It’s nothing, kid,” Gil says. "Just a plate. What happened?" 

His mouth opens and closes uselessly. "I—I…"

' _Tell them. Tell them about me. Tell them how I broke your fragile little soul through and through in nineteen days, you pathetic little whore. Shattered you like that plate at your feet. Touched you and made you like it. Made you into a murderer, just as God planned. Nineteen days. Nineteen days. Nineteen days. Tell them! Tell them, boy!'_

Instead, Malcolm turns around, and vomits into the sink. There are hands gently holding him up, rubbing his back, and he can't tell whose. Might be John's. Might be no one's at all.

He might still be back in the cellar. Can he really be sure, when all he can ever hear is John's voice? 

He feels his weakened body slump. Arms pick him up, carry him back to his room, just like when he used to fall asleep on the couch between Jackie and Gil while they watched a movie. 

He was only safe here. Only ever safe here. Beaten at school, neglected at home, manipulated inside his father’s cell, inside his father’s _games._

_‘Dad...why did you kill all those people?’_

_‘Maybe we can figure it out. Together.’_

Manipulated, fooled, _puppeteered_. 

Saved. 

His father had _saved him._

_Why?_ Why him? Why him, and none of the others? Why _him?_ Why did _he_ deserve to live? Why did _he_ , of all people—

"Kid, hey…can you hear us?" Gil is asking, his voice slowly coming through.

"My love, oh, my love," Jessica is saying.

He’s shivering. Shaking and cold under several blankets, mouth still tasting of bile. Gil holds a glass of cool water to his filthy lips, cupping the back of his head, and he drinks it down. 

“You’re okay,” Gil says, but he’s wrong. He’s wrong. Nothing is okay.

"Sleepy," he whispers finally, leaning into his mother’s touch as she places a hand on his cheek. "Sleepy, Momma." 

"Okay, love," she tells him. "That's okay. You can sleep."

"Please don't...please don't...I can't…" He pulls his hands up to his chest, protecting them from being locked up again. "No more, Momma." 

"Okay, love. I promise. We'll keep you safe. Just relax. We're here."

She pets his hair. Gil holds his hand.

John trails fingers up his chest.

‘ _My perfect disciple. My beloved.'_

John presses his hand over his mark, and says, ' _Mine.'_

Instead of arguing, instead of doing _anything_ , Malcolm is quiet. 

He closes his eyes, and knows with an awful, terrible certainty that, quite simply, John is right.

Malcolm hasn't been his _own_ since Christmas, and now…

Now he never, ever will be again.

**x**

"Bright?" 

Malcolm blinks, and looks around the room. Stuffed animals, toys—right. Now he remembers.

"I'm here," he says.

"Are you?" Gabrielle asks. "You didn't know where you were for a moment just now, did you?" 

"Uh…" Malcolm clears his throat, and rubs at his face. "I just…"

"You're having problems with dissociation," she supplies. "It's to be expected, after what you went through."

"You have no idea what I went through," Malcolm snaps, and then takes a breath, reaches out with his trembling hand to take a drink of water. 

"Please put the glass down while we talk," Gabrielle says, and Malcolm obeys. He looks at the scar on his palm from when he sliced it open right here, and then closes his hand into a tight fist.

"You can talk to me," she goes on. "You know you can."

"I don't want to," Malcolm says. "I'm _fine."_

She regards him doubtfully. "You're not, Bright. You can't even hear your own name without flinching. Why is that?"

Malcolm is silent. It's none of her _fucking business._ He doesn't want to be here. He wants to go back to Gil's, to be held, because it makes him feel better than this ever could. 

But he shouldn't do that either. He shouldn't keep needing Gil's attention, his affection, to feel something. It's been just under a week now—he thinks, at least, as he really spends most of his time staring as the clock ticks—and he needs to go back home. He needs to stop acting like this. Like...like a—

_'Little boy,'_ John murmurs from behind him. Malcolm flinches, but shakes himself, tries to pretend like it was nothing. 

' _So cute. So pretty._ '

Malcolm reaches for the water again, drinks the rest of it down. 

John hasn't gone away, but he’s been here some fifteen minutes and he still hasn't _told_ her. 

Gil asked him once more, days ago, if he was seeing him. And once more, Malcolm had said no.

He deserves it, he thinks. It reminds him where going off without backup left him, reminds him exactly where he put himself. 

"You keep wincing," Gabrielle murmurs, tilting her chin up and touching just below it. "When you swallow. Are you sick?" 

Malcolm shakes his head. "Just a sore throat."

"How long has that been going on?" 

"Just today," Malcolm mumbles, and then waves his hand dismissively. "It's nothing. I'm fine. Completely fine! I don't need to be here." 

"You were tortured," Gabrielle says. "And you needed to be here _before_ that." 

"Because I'm crazy," Malcolm says, and smiles. "I know."

"I _didn't_ say—"

"It was nineteen days," he interrupts. "That's it."

"That's nearly a month, Bright."

He rolls his eyes, blinks back tears he never gave permission to come in the first place. "But it _wasn’t_ a month. It wasn't even _three_ _weeks_.” He shifts around, brings his legs up to sit with them criss-crossed. “I was—I was in withdrawal. I was starved. Dehydrated. I barely remember anything."

Gabrielle's eyes slide down to his hand, and Malcolm grits his teeth as he realizes just how badly it's trembling, hiding it in the pocket of his coat.

"You remember _something_ ," Gabrielle says quietly, leaning back. "What?" 

Malcolm bounces his leg, digs his nails into his thigh.

' _Tell her. Go on, little Malcolm. Tell her everything.'_

He squeezes his eyes shut. 

"It's okay, Bright. You're safe here. You can talk to me about anything you need to."

“I don’t _need_ to—” He cuts off, although he doesn’t know why. His throat simply closes, and he chokes, having to cough in order to breathe again.

Gabrielle doesn’t say anything. She waits patiently, likely knowing that silence will break Malcolm down faster than anything.

And it does.

"The Girl," he manages to say at last.

"Yes?" 

"I—" He breathes hard. He doesn't know why it's so hard to say, when he's already admitted it before. When he's already _done it._ "I—I—killed her."

_'Who else, hmm?'_

"Watkins, too," he says. "I killed John Watkins. To save my father, who saved me. My _serial killer father,_ who saved my life. Wh-why—" 

He squirms, starts to shake. It's something he's been trying _so desperately_ to ignore, but faced with it here and now he _can't._

"Why would he do that? Why—why did I deserve it more than the rest of his victims? Just because I'm his _son?_ Why— _John,_ he—he kept me alive, too. I lived. I'm here. None of The Surgeon's victims are. None of Watkins' victims are. Just me. It's _just me._ And I'm—"

"Bright—"

"And I'm just like them!" He can't breathe, and he can't _stop._ He never should have started in the first place, because now the words are tumbling out, uncontrollable. "I killed. I'm a murderer. I'm a _murderer._ I killed her. I didn't mean to! I didn't—I tried to help her. But I k- _killed_ her instead. I don't deserve to—I should be dead. I should be dead. They should have killed me. I just want to be dead! I just—I just—I want—"

He curls into himself, pulling at his hair. "I wanna—I just—"

He starts to cry, unable to help it. He wants to run away and he _can't_ , and he flinches away as something touches his arm.

"Bright. Hey. Listen to my voice. Hold onto this." 

It's soft. Whatever it is is _soft,_ feels like Sunshine. He wants Sunshine...but he can't have her right now. So he reaches out, hesitant, and grasps onto what Gabrielle's holding out to him. 

It's the stuffed panda he sometimes grabs from the shelf during a particularly bad session, and he clings to it, pushes his face into it and whimpers.

"Bright. Just relax. Can you take some breaths with me?"

Malcolm coughs, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and nods. 

"Alright. We're just going to breathe, okay? Together. Breathe in...that's right...now hold it, just a moment...and let it out. That was good. Very good, Bright. Let's do it again."

As much as he wants to never breathe again, he does, for her. He figures it would be a little rude to die in her chair. He cradles the panda to his chest, shaking and rocking, and then slowly, slowly, begins to calm. 

“Good, Bright,” Gabrielle keeps saying, “very good.”

But he’s not good. He’s bad. He’s _bad._

“You’re not bad,” Gabrielle tells him. He hadn’t known he was speaking, but he can hear it now, a repetitive, “ _Bad, bad, bad, I’m bad,”_ that he has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop.

“You’re not bad, Bright. You’re good. You’re good. Listen to me. Hey. Just breathe. Keep breathing. You’re good. You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s safe here.”

“I want Gil,” he mumbles, “want Momma. Want Jackie. Jackie’s _dead._ Dead like The Girl. Dead like John.” 

"You miss her often?" 

Malcolm nods, sniffling. 

"You haven't talked about her since she died," Gabrielle says. "Would you like to?" 

No. No. He misses her too much for that. It hurts to even think about her. "Uh-uh." 

"Okay. That's okay. We don't have to. What would you like to talk about?"

"I just wanna _go,_ " Malcolm says. "I want _Gil_."

"Gil makes you feel better, doesn't he? He always has. He's your safety. Has been since you were ten. Right?”

Malcolm nods again, hugs the bear a bit tighter. Feels good to squeeze something soft. Feels safe. He just wants to feel _safe_. “Uh-huh.” 

“Bright...you've regressed. Not just in progress, in general, but...right now. I see the same terrified child that first came to me. And while it’s a perfectly fine coping mechanism, I’m worried what caused it. Whatever happened down there, the things you found out, it all hurts. And that's okay. You're allowed to hurt. But we need to talk about that hurt. Don’t you remember? Talking about the hurt makes it easier to deal with.”

Malcolm rubs at his dirty mouth, sucks on his knuckle, and shakes his head. “Sad.”

“You’re sad. That’s okay. Let’s talk about our feelings, okay?” 

He doesn’t want to _talk._ He wants _Gil._

“Do you want something to hold in your hand?” 

Malcolm brings his violently shaking hand up before his face, staring at it, and then nods. Gabrielle slides a stress ball into his grip, folding his fingers around it, and he squeezes it. 

“There we go. That’s better, right?" She sits back in her chair, crossing her legs and folding her hands on her knee. “This is a safe place, Bright. You’re allowed to feel whatever you need to here. You’re feeling sad, and that’s okay. You’ve been through some terrible things, haven’t you? Painful things?”

Malcolm shuts his eyes. He sees chains, stairs, a cabin, trees rushing past him as he runs, runs, _runs_ , never fast enough to get away.

“Open your eyes, Bright."

Malcolm blinks, but when he looks around, he finds they're _both_ in the cellar.

"No," he mumbles, "no, no, no, no…"

"I'm here, Bright. What are you seeing?" 

"Dark," Malcolm replies. "Dark, dark, too dark…kept me here...in the cellar. Was so cold. 'm so _cold_."

"You're not there, Bright. You're here."

"Still cold," Malcolm says. "Always cold."

Never be warm again. He's in three layers and he's _still cold._

He shakes his head. He squeezes the ball, the bear, and when he blinks again, he's back among toys and books.

"He hurt me," he manages, curling up tighter. 

"I know he did. I'm so sorry."

"Hurt me so _much_. My feet hurt. Everythin' _hurts_. An'—an'—"

He presses his hand to his chest and _sobs._

"An' he _marked_ me!" He scratches at the wound, just enough to hurt through the bandage. "Right here! Won't go away. Not ever. Not _ever."_

"Scars will fade," she tells him, "mental and physical. We're going to work through them, okay?"

She leans forward, smiling at him. So kind, always so _kind._ Not what he deserves. So _kind._

"Together, okay?" 

He nods, slowly. Maybe that would be okay.

As long as he's not alone anymore.

**x**

Gabrielle tells him it's okay, but Gil still can't help but worry when he arrives to Malcolm in a state far more like he'd been in the hospital than before, perhaps _worse._

"It's common in patients with severe trauma and PTSD," Gabrielle says as they talk in the corner of the room, watching Malcolm fiddle with a tangle toy. "They mentally retreat to an age they felt safer."

"What...do I _do?"_ Gil asks.

"Take care of him," she says. "He'll come out of it. It progressed further the more I pushed for his memories...I'm not sure he remembers anything happened at all right now."

Gil swallows hard, stares down at the floor, and pushes his hands into his pockets.

"What?"

Gil shakes his head, and tilts it in the direction of Malcolm. "Not here."

Gabrielle frowns at him, and then calls, "Bright?"

"Huh?" Malcolm replies, looking up with eyes brighter and more innocent than Gil's seen them in a long time.

"We're going to step right outside the door, okay? Just to talk. You call out if you need us. The door's going to stay open."

Malcolm nods, seeming completely careless as he goes back to the toy. Gil follows Gabrielle around the corner, and sinks into the nearest chair. 

"What's going on?" Gabrielle asks, sitting beside him, and Gil rubs at his beard.

"There're things he doesn't remember at all," he finally murmurs. "Things I can't...things I can't _tell_ him."

"He mentioned a whip," Gabrielle says. "A knife. Starvation. Physical torture. Words became difficult for him. And when I tried to get further into the psychological damage of it all...he shut down completely to protect himself."

Gil closes his eyes. He doesn’t doubt that.

"Watkins made a video,” he says. “He filmed himself trying to force Malcolm to murder a girl. And then he beat him. He—" He chokes, as if hands are around his own throat. "He strangled him. Had to give him CPR to bring him back. I—I saw him _die._ And then—"

He grabs onto the chair to try and steady himself, and lowers his voice to nothing but a whisper. 

"And then—"

"Gil?"

Gil leaps off the chair, his shoes squeaking and skidding on the tile as he turns to look at Malcolm standing in the doorway.

"Bright—" he wheezes, and he's _never_ been so afraid, but Malcolm doesn't look upset, doesn't look like he heard.

He looks… 

_Small_. He's holding a stuffed panda against his chest and rubbing his eye. He looks ten years old again, and it nearly breaks Gil in half.

"...Yeah?" Gil asks, just to be sure, and Malcolm looks up at him. 

"Sleepy," he says. "Wanna go home."

Gil breathes out slow, and nods. "Yeah. Sure, kid. Okay." 

Gabrielle stands up. She looks a bit like she's recovering from news Gil never got the chance to give her, and he wonders if she doesn't already know.

God, he wishes he didn't know. He wishes it wasn't looping inside his head every waking moment.

"Alright, Bright," she says, and smiles at him. "It was good to see you again. And we're going to keep up with our appointments, right?" 

"Hmm," Malcolm says, grabbing onto Gil's sleeve and cradling the bear against his chest. 

"I'm gonna let you keep all that, as long as you promise to bring it back with you whenever you come here, okay?"

"Mine?" Malcolm asks, and Gabrielle nods.

"All yours."

Malcolm smiles, shyly ducking his head, and Gil looks at her helplessly. 

"He needs a _nap,"_ Gabrielle says quietly. "He'll be okay.” And louder, she adds, “Alright, Bright. You have a good day, okay?" 

"Okay," Malcolm replies, like nothing's wrong, like his eyes aren't rimmed red, like his body doesn't show the effects of a month of deprivation. Gil doesn’t quite understand, but he almost hopes it doesn’t end, for Malcolm’s own benefit.

“We’ll talk soon,” she says, and with that, Malcolm is pulling Gil down the hall.

In the elevator, shifting from foot to foot in clear discomfort even with the cushioned shoes, Malcolm takes Gil's hand and places a root beer lollipop in it.

"For you," Malcolm says, and then bumps his head against Gil's shoulder and nuzzles it. "Love you."

He smiles. He looks _happy_. 

Gil realizes he’d forgotten what that looked like until now.

"I love you, too, kid," Gil breathes out. "Thanks. Everything good?"

Malcolm nods. He follows Gil to the car, blissfully unaware of the judgmental look he gets from someone passing by whom Gil nearly _punches_ in his silent fury.

They don’t know a damn thing. They don’t know what Malcolm’s been through. They don’t know what he’s survived, what he’s _trying_ to survive, what’s gotten him to this point. 

Gil wants to protect him.

Gil _couldn’t_ protect him when it mattered the most.

“ _Gil_ ,” Malcolm whines, tugging at the car door and sighing impatiently, and Gil apologizes, unlocks the door and feels as if he’s truly traveled back in time when Malcolm curls against his side once they're inside.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, and Malcolm shakes his head.

“Just sleepy,” he says again, closing his eyes. 

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t gasp and startle and open them again like Gil has noticed he’s done every time he closes them more than a moment since his return.

He just leans against Gil, seeming perfectly content.

Gil mourns the time in Malcolm’s life that must have been so. With his father. The father Gil knows Malcolm misses dearly, no matter how thick a wall he puts up between himself and his emotions.

Now, his walls have been broken down. Every single one, all by John Watkins, all in a matter of weeks, and Gil doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to successfully build them back up. He’s _afraid_ Malcolm won’t be able to. He’s afraid Malcolm won’t be the same, and that it’ll be _his fucking fault._

He shakes himself, careful not to disturb the boy on his arm, and drives them home. Malcolm doesn’t seem to be completely asleep, but Gil picks him up anyways. He takes him inside, brings him to bed, and lays him down.

Sunshine chirps, flies around, and lands on Malcolm’s head. Malcolm smiles, so serenely, and reaches up with the hand not still holding the bear up to touch her. 

“You okay? Want me to leave you alone?”

Malcolm looks frightened for just a moment, and Gil squeezes his hand.

“Uh-uh. Stay."

Gil sits down beside him. "Okay. I will. Long as you need me, I’m here. Don’t worry.” 

Malcolm pets Sunshine for a while, until his hand drops back down to his chest and he yawns. Gil rubs his hand, comfortingly, and watches him start to drift.

He’s never seen Malcolm so _peaceful._

And then, the moment he thinks Malcolm’s finally fallen asleep, Malcolm instead croaks out, “When’s Jackie gonna be home?” 

Gil feels like he’s been physically struck, so rattled that for a moment he forgets how to speak. 

_Jackie_.

Malcolm blinks his eyes half open to look up at him, patiently for a response. 

Gil forces a smile, and pets Malcolm’s hair back. “Soon, kid. Just...rest for a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Malcolm mumbles. “When I wake up? I miss her.” 

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fuckin’ hell._

Gil’s glad he’s sitting. He doesn’t think his legs would have supported him. He grabs onto Malcolm’s hand just a little tighter, gritting his teeth, and smiles through it, if only to preserve Malcolm’s happiness for a moment longer.

“Yeah,” he says. “When you wake up.”

“Why’re you cryin’?” Malcolm asks softly, tugging on his sleeve, and Gil wipes at his eyes. 

“Nothing, kid. Just...just go to sleep. I’m right here.”

Malcolm nods, nuzzles down against the blanket, and closes his eyes again.

Gil, somehow, manages to wait until Malcolm's breathing is steady and slow before he starts to sob.

**x**

“How is he?"

Gil looks up at Dani and smiles weakly, stirring more sugar into his second cup of coffee. His first night back at the precinct, just to get some paperwork done, happens to be the very night Malcolm had insisted he was alright enough to try spending back at home, and worry doesn’t come close to what Gil is feeling. 

It hasn’t even been a week since his therapy session, the one Malcolm can't even _remember._ Since he'd woken up not knowing how he'd gotten home, and Gil had had to tell him that he'd been so gone he thought Jackie was still alive.

Malcolm had looked mortified. He'd apologized profusely, as if her name was something forbidden. He'd shoved the stuffed panda into his suitcase, as if his need for comfort was something embarrassing.

And he'd changed. He'd stopped asking for hugs. He'd started _avoiding_ them, if anything, and insisting every clear flinch was just Gil seeing things, that every wince of pain with movement was really not as bad as it looked. 

Insisting he's okay, when Gil knows he's not. Getting _heated_ about coming back to work, until Gil had had to tell him that if he asked again the answer would be _never._

“Um,” he says at last, "better, maybe. Or worse. God, I can't tell. But...he went home tonight.”

Dani frowns. “Alone?”

“He said he could handle it. He wouldn't let me say no. I’m calling every hour, Jessica’s gonna head over later to check on him...I’m not _happy_ about it, but…”

He shrugs. Malcolm had told him _right_ where he could shove those feelings when Gil had tried to stop him from leaving, but Gil can’t say he didn’t _try._

"Have you…" She shifts. "Have you decided what to do? About…"

Gil breathes in, and shakes his head. 

"I can't tell him, Dani," he says. "I can't. I can't do that to him."

"It can't be a secret. I can't—I can't have that hanging over my head."

"And I can?" 

"That's not what I—"

"How?" Gil chokes, bracing himself against the counter. "How can I hurt him like that? He doesn't remember. He should never have to. I can't...I can't keep it from it forever. I know that I can't. But he's so… _fragile_ right now. If I wait…maybe—"

"What if it breaks him all over again?" 

"I don't know," he insists. "I don't know. God, Dani, I _don't know."_

He slumps at the table, burying his face in his hands. 

"It's all I see," he whispers. "I can't—I can barely sleep. I don't want to. Every time I close my eyes—I see him being tortured. _Killed._ "

"I know," she says, sitting across from him and crossing her arms. "Me too. It's...the nightmares are…"

"Suffocating."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's the right word."

"He already thinks what he _does_ remember is his fault. God, how can we—how can _I—"_

He shakes his head. "It's a goddamn impossible choice to make," he says. "He has a right to know. But I don't want him to. I want—I want to protect him. I _couldn't protect him,_ I—I just—"

His phone rings, and he wipes at his eyes, digging it out of his pocket. "Hey, kid. How're you—"

" _Gil,"_ comes Malcolm's voice, full of panic, and Gil stands up, locking eyes with Dani. 

"Bright? What's wrong?"

“Please,” Malcolm whimpers. “Gil, please come. Please, I—I need—I'm scared, I need you, _please!_ ”

“Bright, what's going on? Are you okay? _B_ _right?_ ”

The line's gone dead, and Gil's in motion before he's fully aware of it, running out the door to his car with Dani at his heels.

"Gil! What's—"

"I don't know. Get in," he tells her, pulling out his police light to stick to his dash as she does. She calls Malcolm, and he doesn't answer, and she starts to breathe heavier. 

"It feels like—" She doesn't finish, but Gil knows. He knows.

It feels just like that night again, when they hadn't known Malcolm had been taken, not for sure, calling again and again only for it to go to voicemail.

And Gil drives faster, because he didn't the first time.

He fumbles with the keys to Malcolm's apartment, hands shaking, and Dani has her gun out just in case as they enter.

"Bright!"

_Nothing._

The apartment is empty. Sunshine is screeching in her cage, swinging it on the hook. There's a glass shattered on the floor, and Gil's heart drops even as he sees no blood.

_Signs of a struggle—no, he can't be gone, not again, no, no, no—_

" _Bright!"_ he shouts, and he’s _terrified,_ until suddenly he hears a muffled noise from his left. He turns, looks at Dani, and she points at the closet.

“Malcolm?” he asks, soft as he can, as he inches open the door.

Malcolm is curled into himself, his arms wrapped around his knees, his face buried in them, underneath a pile of his clothes he’s yanked down over him, like he's trying to hide. Gil clicks on the light, and Malcolm scrambles back even further, wide, tear-filled eyes looking up. 

“Please don’t—” he gasps, and then blinks hard, recognition falling over his face. “Gil... _Gil—”_

He reaches up, and Gil kneels down, lets the boy grab onto him and shove his face into his shoulder, sniffling. 

“Thank you, thank you, I'm sorry, _please,_ help me…” 

Gil holds him close, stroking his hair. “It’s okay,” he soothes, leaning against the wall, glancing up. Dani has looked away, biting her lip.

“It’s okay, Bright. Hey. What's wrong? What happened? Nightmare?"

Malcolm pulls away, just slightly. He frowns, and wipes under his nose, and nods. “I…I think...I don't...I don't know. I don't r-remember...think I...fell asleep, I...and th-then he...I s-saw..."

Though he already knows the answer, Gil whispers, “Who, kid?"

“John,” Malcolm finally chokes out. "I—I saw John. He's..."

"He's what?"

Malcolm lets out a sob, and points over Gil's shoulder. 

"There," he says. "Please, Gil. He won't go. _He won't go._ I need him to _go._ Please make him go."

“Oh, Malcolm," Gil says, cupping his cheeks, bringing his attention away from the corner even if Malcolm still won't meet his eyes. "John is dead. He's _not here_. You know that, right? You know he can’t hurt you ever again, don’t you?”

Malcolm weakly smiles. It’s absolutely broken, and looks nothing like it used to.

“No,” he replies, and then puts his face back against Gil’s coat to cry. 


	26. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!! I am back! And very excited, because the rest of the story is completely outlined! We still got a few chapters left...and some Very Good Shit >:)...which actually is ending up starting n e x t chapter because I am OCD as all fuck and couldn't stand the idea of this thing being 29 chapters instead of 30. Like I just...couldn't. Not happening. 
> 
> Next chapter DEFINITELY won't be that long of a wait, because it's nearly completely done at this point because of the split I had to do. Had. I had to. No choice. 29 bad. 30 good. 
> 
> Ahh please enjoy! I am excited to post more of my baby :3 I love you guys!! I hope you are doing well!!
> 
> TW for thoughts of suicide, (past) self-harm, and Malcolm just in general being a v sad boi. Sigh...I love my son. That is why he must suffer.

In the moment, Malcolm had been hoping she wouldn't notice them. 

Overwhelmed and _needy,_ his hands move across her body, admiring every dip and curve as they kiss.

He forgets sometimes how many there are, forgets how many places they're in.

Eve looks over his bare torso, touches his hip right over a particularly noticeable one, and he takes her hand, pulls it away, kisses her again to distract.

He shouldn't have. Eve parts their lips, takes his hand, and notices what trails up his arm with an expression that pinches in concern. 

He recoils. He hugs himself, tucks his hands up under his arms and closes his eyes. He turns his head away from her, and she slides onto the couch, breathing hard.

"Hey," she says carefully, "don't...it's okay. Really." 

"It's not okay," he says, quiet. He knows that far too well. "It's not. You can…" 

He shrinks into himself just a little more. "Go, if you...want."

Eve touches his shoulder, fingers just barely brushing against his skin. It makes him shiver.

"I don't want," she says. "Not at all."

Malcolm looks up at her at last, confused. While he's never quite had a _relationship,_ his scars—if things didn't happen so fast, or in the dark, if they were _seen—_ still would bring up an uncomfortable barrier between him and whoever he was with for the night. Dominants usually stopped wanting to play rough, thinking him fragile, that they might break him—that he didn't _want_ them to. Some had dropped him completely. 

A few had turned to disgust, to insults as they left him alone, to calling Malcolm a mess, psychotic, unstable. 

_Unworthy._ And those times could never be erased by the rest. 

But now, as he looks at Eve, he sees something different in her eyes.

He sees compassion. Understanding. 

_Love._ He sees love, he thinks, and he wants to kiss her again.

"They're from a long time ago," he says. _Most of them_ , he doesn't add.

She reaches out, grasping his fingers.

"Can I see?"

He breathes out harshly. What the hell kind of request is that? _See_ them? So she _can_ be scared away? Why would anyone ever _want_ to look at them? "It's better if you don't." 

"Please," she says. "Let me." 

Malcolm grits his teeth. His hand has started to shake.

But he, for some reason, can't say no to her. He can't tell her to drop it, because she's looking at him so _sweetly,_ asking him so _kindly._

It's a mistake. God, he makes _too many_ mistakes. He trusts _too easily._

But slowly, he extends his arms, flipping his palms up to face the ceiling, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

His insides twist. His heart pounds. He can't seem to properly take in a breath.

And then she touches him, just one finger tracing down the scar that nearly ended his life, and he flinches, his whole body trembling in fearful anticipation.

"I—I'm sorry," he whispers. 

"Why are you sorry?" 

"They're…I'm…" He's helpless for words for a moment, shaking his head, and then finally he ducks it down and mumbles, " _Ugly._ "

"Malcolm." She reaches out, cups his chin, and lifts it back up. He can hardly look at her, eyes burning with tears he's struggling to hold back.

"You're not ugly," she says. "Malcolm. You're beautiful." 

Malcolm _chokes_. 

He doesn't think anyone's ever called him that before. 

Sexy, handsome, hot. Bad, stupid, _broken._

But not beautiful. 

The tears fall down his cheeks. He sniffles and _sobs_ and she looks nearly terrified. 

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks.

God, she thinks it's _her._ She thinks it's her when it could only ever possibly be Malcolm.

" _No,_ " he somehow managed to get out. "No. N...not you. I'm...I just... _ha_...sorry, I…" 

She does something, then, as he sputters, something that stops his speech, briefly stops his _heart._

She brings his arm up, brings her head down.

She _kisses_ the scar with pink, velvet-soft lips, and a gasp escapes from between Malcolm's. 

"What—wh—what're you—?"

"You're beautiful," she says again, and kisses a different one. 

He wants to pull away and push closer, to hide himself and bear everything, all at once. He shakes harder, and he can hardly see through the tears, and he lets her do what she wants.

And somehow, _this_ is what she wants.

He doesn't understand. He could never understand. But he watches her through blurred vision as she kisses up that arm and then starts on the other.

He's absolutely pliant under her touch. She's so _careful_ , lips pressing down up to his elbow, his shoulder, and then gently pushing him back, nibbling on his neck.

"You're _beautiful,_ Malcolm."

"You're…" He fumbles for words, for purchase as his hands come to rest on her sides again, and moans quietly. "You're s-so…"

She laughs. Maybe she doesn't know why he's so speechless, and maybe she could never understand. 

But she thinks he's beautiful. She thinks he's _worth_ something. 

So really, no words could describe what she is, anyways, besides maybe _angel._

She leans up, kisses him again, and he somehow, wonderfully, forgets there's anything bad in the world at all. 

**x**

" _I'm sorry."_

He hadn't meant to. He _hadn't meant to._

The knife sticks straight up out of the floor. Eve, wrapped in a blanket, stares up at him in absolute terror.

Malcolm wonders if it's how Martin's victims looked at him. 

Malcolm wonders if, had he taken one more second to wake up, Eve would have been _his_ victim.

"I'm so sorry…" he whispers. "I'm sorry." 

Eve doesn't say a word. She watches him a moment longer, and then gets to her feet. She grabs her shirt, her pants, and Malcolm starts to beg.

"Please, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry, Eve—"_ He can't do anything but stand there, shaking hard and nearly naked—nearly a _murderer_ —as she tugs on her clothes, grabs her shoes.

Leaving, leaving him alone, _please no, not again._

"Don't go, please don't, I'm _so sorry—"_

She hears him, he knows, but doesn't act like she does. 

Instead, she moves past Malcolm, to the door, and he sobs, " _Eve!"_ just as she darts out of it.

Gone.

She's gone.

The only person to ever make him _feel_ like this, _gone_.

"No, no, I'm— _sorry!"_

She doesn't come back. She will _never_ come back.

He drops to his knees and lets out a heartbroken cry, crumpling over onto the floor.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry…_ "

But apologies don't matter, because he could have killed her. He could have become his father, as easy as that. As simple and as quick as that. He wouldn't have even _known_. Not until she was dead, bleeding out in front of him.

Moonlight glints off the blade. He takes it, carefully, and holds it to his neck.

_Do it. Fucking do it. Please. Please do it._

He imagines them finding him. The disappointment they'd all feel, thinking he did it over a girl when in reality it was over _everything ever._ His entire existence, goddamn cursed from the moment he was conceived. 

He could do it. So easily. He knows perfectly well where to aim. 

He _should_ do it. For the goddamn safety of everyone he loves, he should.

Instead he drops his hand, slumps forward and sobs. He thinks about the people he still needs to save, people that aren't even in danger yet but _will_ be with only him to give them a chance of survival, and knows he can't. 

He draws lines across the skin of his thigh, until blood spatters down against the floor and he regains a semblance of control over his mind. It's what he _can_ do; pain and hunger are his only certainties.

He tosses the knife into the sink and wraps his newly decorated thigh in gauze, and red seeps through as he fastens it in place. He hasn't done this much damage to himself in a long time. Years. A nick here and there, a burn to remind him he's alive, but not like this.

But it doesn't matter. If nothing else, tonight has been proof of that. He'll heal over, he'll give himself to someone who will leave him before morning—before he can _kill them—_ and things will go on like they always did before. 

So tired...so _fucking tired._

He can barely find the strength to walk from the bathroom to his bed, to buckle himself into where he should have been tonight, and falls into a fit of laughter at the absurdity of it all. 

All this from a dream of death. All this from a recommendation to pretend he was normal for a night. 

Normal has never been something that's possible, not for Malcolm Whitly _or_ Malcolm Bright. 

And God above, sometimes he's not sure which one he is.

**x**

John is talking to him. Holding him in a hug. He calls Malcolm his miracle, and Malcolm is far too tired to open his eyes, to do anything at all. 

He breathes. His chest aches, but he breathes.

"Oh, little Malcolm…"

Fingers brush along his lips, pushing between them, and Malcolm can't prevent it. He can't _move._

There's something very wrong, but he doesn't quite know _what._ He's scared to death, and he doesn't quite know _why._

His entire body is numb. His fingertips tingle, and his hand shakes. He still can't get his eyes to open. 

John keeps touching his mouth. Keeps probing into it with dirty, bloody fingers, tainting it, tainting _him._

Malcolm wants to die. He just wants this all to end. He knows he's never going home, and he wishes John would just _kill_ him and finally stop his suffering. 

But he deserves it. That's what John keeps saying, and what else matters anymore but what John thinks? There is no one else. Maybe not in the entire world.

Just him. Just John. Just pain. Just misery. Just touch he doesn't want, over and over again—just the knowledge that John is going to take him further away, so _far_ —they won't even know what _happened_ to him, they'll _never know—_

_Gil—I just—I just want Gil—Momma—please—_

He wakes with a ragged gasp, and he can't move. He fights with what's holding him down, and as his senses return he recognizes it to be _blankets,_ as many as he thinks he owns, sweat-soaked and wrapped around his limbs.

He thinks noticing them before the restraints is what saves him from another panic attack. He sees the cuffs, one around his wrist and the other loosened to fit above his cast, and he knows they aren't the chains. 

He _thinks_ he knows. He's _fairly certain_ he knows. 

' _But you can't be sure, can you?'_ John asks, sitting beside him, and Malcolm throws one of the blankets off in his direction, swearing under his breath. 

' _Not ever, little boy…'_

He whimpers, covering his ears as if the voice can't still get to him, as if John isn't in his aching head, able to hurt him anywhere he tries to hide.

Can't do this...he can't...do this. He can't. No more. 

_Please, God, leave me alone._

He gags, but there's nothing to come up. He undoes the cuffs, tossing them to the floor, and presses his palms into his eyes, rocking. 

He doesn't _want this._ He wants—

Gil. Gil, _please_ , _help me._

Suddenly terrified at the prospect of being alone, he gasps out a strangled noise and looks around, and, in the dim light of the sun starting to rise, he's relieved to find Gil still here, slumped in the chair at the foot of the bed, sound asleep. 

Malcolm wants to curl up with him, to feel safe, just like he always used to, but he _can't._ He knows he can't. He's kept Gil from sleep long enough. 

Tears fall down his cheeks, and he wipes them away on his sleeves. Sunshine flies down to perch on his shoulder, and he pets her for a while, trying to relax, to steady himself, to regain any part of the sanity he'd once had a relatively stable grip on, at least enough to live, to _work._

But now, he can't work. Gil won't let him, and likely won't for a while, for _too long._

He was nothing without his work _before_ this. Now…

How can he work? How? In pain and weak and _scared,_ he can't even look up without the nerves in his hand reacting as if John is stabbing him again, as if John is here ordering him to—

' _Keep those pretty little eyes down.'_

He squeezes them shut. 

It's psychosomatic. Logically, he knows it must be. Or perhaps it's coincidence, and he's simply choosing a moment when his hand would _already_ have hurt to dare trying to raise his head.

But it isn't _real._ John isn't. He goddamn can't be. Gil had talked to him _all night,_ assuring him that John is dead, and Gil doesn't lie. Not to Malcolm. Not about this.

Malcolm pulls one of the blankets over his head, ashamed, and is glad that he had been mostly incoherent. He couldn't tell Gil much of anything. He remembers admitting that he was seeing John, but he knows he couldn't speak much sense afterwards, could only keep pleading for Gil to help him, for—

For _Dani_ to help him. 

Oh, _she'd_ seen him like that, too. She'd seen him clinging to Gil so tightly, his face buried in Gil's shoulder, that Gil hadn't been able to move. Seen him force Gil to stay with him on the floor for he didn't even _know_ how long, rocking him and cooing like he was a _baby_ until he'd fallen asleep.

If she'd somehow never thought him pathetic before, _now..._

He remembers waking up when Gil placed him in his bed, terrified, arms flailing until Gil gently pushed them back down. Dani was gone. Gil promised he'd stay, he just needed Malcolm to _breathe, relax, please._ He'd helped Malcolm drink some water and take the painkillers and rubbed his arm until he drifted off again.

He can imagine the pity in Gil's eyes, the ones he still can't meet.

_Nineteen days_. _Nineteen._

It was nothing. _Nothing._ It could have been months. It could have been _years._ He can't be this broken. He can't—he can't— _do this._ He can't live like this. He _can't_ , he just can't, he—

His doorbell buzzes. Gil doesn't move, breaths soft and even, and Malcolm is quick to get up in hopes to let him sleep a while longer. He limps his way to the door, clicks on the speaker, and quietly asks, "Hello?"

He doesn't expect to hear his name, most certainly not from the voice of the woman he never thought he'd see again. 

" _Eve_ ," he breathes out, buzzing her in through the first door and opening his.

She stands at the bottom of the stairs, as he stands at the top.

And she looks _beautiful._

"Hi," she says, and he staggers down three steps before his legs give out and he has to sit. He thinks even if he wasn't injured, the sight of her, the sound of her voice, would still have brought him to his knees.

She's by his side in an instant, dropping the bag off her shoulder and reaching out, though she doesn't touch. "Are you—?"

_No. No. I'm not—_

"F-fine," he gets out, because he always does. His most perfected, practiced lie. "How…?"

She bends a knee, lowers herself to his level, and lets her eyes travel over him. "Your mother. She reached out. She told me you were home. I was...I was so worried about you. I thought…"

Malcolm feels lighter than he has since their night together.

She was _worried._ She cared...she still cared... _she cared for him..._

"I missed you," he says. "Eve, I'm so—"

"Sorry," she finishes, and smiles softly. "I know. Me too. I should have called, I...and then...you were just...gone. You were gone, and...I thought I'd never be able to apologize. I thought...Malcolm, I thought I’d never see you again.”

She missed him, too...she'd thought about him...

She takes his hand. He's not sure this isn't just another dream, but it's the best one he's _ever_ had, and he never wants to wake up.

"Please," he whispers, and when she sits beside him he can't stop himself from seeking comfort, from burying his face into the softness of her shoulder and whimpering as she wraps her arms around him, as she cups the back of his head and holds him close, so close.

"Eve…" he says, and starts to cry. “I’m so sorry…” 

"I know." She runs a hand over his back, and the pain makes him choke and flinch.

“What did I do?” she asks, and he breathes out, shaking his head.

“What did he do?” is her next question, and though Malcolm knows it’s innocent, that she doesn’t know—it can’t be _seen_ , right? That he’s...changed?—but still he bites his lip, shifts uncomfortably, and feels anxiety and shame wash over him as he tries not to look behind her, at John holding his knife to her neck, tracing it along her carotid.

_‘Pretty girl...almost as pretty as you.’_

“Uh—” Malcolm clears his throat, squeezing his eyes for a moment against the sight of her blood. “I’m...it’s...uh…”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t...mean for you to think about it.”

“I already was,” he says. “I’m...just...uh...h-healing.”

Her eyes flit down to his cast, and she trails a finger along it as if to soothe. He’s reminded of the gentle way she touched and kissed the scars beneath—and then that memory is overtaken with one of John, his nails scratching down his arm as he told him how wrong he was for ever feeling that way in the first place.

“Oh, Malcolm…”

Even from her, it sounds wrong. It makes him flinch out of his thoughts. He let John destroy everything about him, even his _name._

In nineteen days.

_Nineteen._

“Can you—” He stops himself, and she tilts her head.

“Can I what?”

He forces a smile, and decides against it. How can he explain why? He’ll bear the discomfort, if just to keep her around a while longer. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, right now. Just her.

"I just... _missed_ you." 

Eve cups the back of his head, tangles her fingers in his hair, and he's crying again, tears silently seeping into her shirt as he leans forward.

"What can I do?" she asks.

"Please...j-just...this."

She nods, hair falling over his head to tickle his ear, and he breathes in the scent of her soft floral perfume, remembering the way it clung to his couch, his blanket, from their night together. The way it made him ache deep in his chest when he'd pressed his face into the fabric and wept for the loss of her.

But here she is again, when he truly needs her comfort the most.

She starts to hum to him. It makes him shiver harder, though his tears slow to a stop. She's careful, makes sure to avoid touching his back, pulling him closer with only a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened, Malcolm?" she asks finally. "He took you...to a cabin? Your mother said…"

Malcolm sits back, having to reassure himself that his mother doesn’t know the worst of it, that she wouldn’t have told Eve anyways. "Y-yes. But I...I'm not sure...I don't think I can…" 

"That's okay." She smiles, cupping under his chin, and he melts into her touch. "You can tell me when you're ready, okay?"

He’s not sure he’ll _ever_ be ready to talk about it, not with Gil, Gabrielle, _anyone._ Maybe _especially_ not Eve, because although she’d liked him still with the all scars he’d given _himself_ , the worst ones had been long faded and surgically treated. The ones covering him now haven’t even healed yet. 

John’s mark, over his chest, will never heal _enough._

He whimpers. Eve strokes his cheek, and even that doesn’t distract him from the painful truth.

She looks heartbroken, helpless. “How can I help you?” 

Malcolm doesn’t know. He _doesn’t know._ He doesn’t think she can, that _anyone_ can. This is something he alone is going to be dealing with for the rest of his life, and he can’t _imagine_ that. Constant reminders of what he'd gone through, every time he looks in the mirror, every time he looks _down._ He can’t live like this…he can’t…he _can't..._

“Let me take you somewhere. Please?” 

“Where?” Malcolm asks, hoarse, though he's already certain he'd say yes to anything she wanted.

"I don't know. A drive. Something. Just to talk. We need to...about a lot of things. Can we do that?"

Malcolm nods. Suddenly, escaping with her sounds like the best option available. He needs something…maybe this is it.

"I need to...I need to tell Gil, or...leave a note. He's...st-staying with me. Can you…?"

She helps him up, lets him lean against her as he walks up the steps.

Gil hasn't moved, and though Malcolm considers it, he doesn't wake him. He doesn't need permission—

_'Don't_ _you?'_

—and he knows Gil will understand. It's _Eve._ Malcolm _has_ to go. He _wants_ to. Gil would want him to, wouldn't he? 

He leaves the note on top of his bed, right where Gil will see it, and then pulls on a thick coat and locks up. Eve is careful helping him downstairs, outside, and into her car.

It isn't comfortable to sit with his back against anything. The medicine is starting to wear off, and as much as he knows he deserves the pain, as much as sedation scares him, numbing himself to everything again and again is tempting.

Taking the full bottle and _sleeping_ , maybe forever, is tempting. 

"I probably shouldn't be out at all," he says, when they're already halfway down the street.

She doesn't seem upset. Always so understanding...he doesn’t know how he ever had the luck to meet her. "I can take you back."

"I think that would feel worse," Malcolm replies, leaning against the window. He cracks it open, just to breathe, and the much needed sensation of the cool air across his face, of being _free,_ is short-lived as John reaches around, touches his shoulders, makes him flinch as much as he tries to ignore it.

She looks him over. He sees her do it out of the corner of his vision, and he can’t help but squirm. 

_‘What_ is _she thinking, little Malcolm?’_

“Do you want..." She's quiet, hesitant, uncertain. "I could...buy you breakfast, or…"

Suddenly self-conscious, Malcolm pulls his sleeve down over his hand and reaches up to his face, wants to hide his sunken cheeks and bruised eyes from her. Once again he’s reminded just how _horrific_ he looks, and his hand presses into his chest, against the mark, the body she would never want to see again, that _no one_ would. His stomach growls at the mention of food—it _never_ _shuts up—_ but he shakes his head. "We should...find somewhere to talk."

"Right,” she says. “Okay.”

She parks the car in an empty lot at the park, facing the sunrise. Malcolm realizes he hasn’t taken the time to look at one since his rescue, and he’s momentarily transfixed by the colors swirling together, by his _freedom._ Only _physical_ freedom, perhaps, but something he never thought he’d have again nonetheless. 

He wants to enjoy it. 

John prevents that. He runs his hands through Malcolm's hair and coos at him. 

Malcolm needs him to _leave._ He needs him to stop, _please, stop_.

' _Never, little one. You’re mine.’_

Tears burn in his eyes, and he shuts them tight. He doesn't realize he's shaking so _badly_ until Eve reaches out and grasps his hand, and he weakly smiles at her.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

Malcolm hesitates, and then says, "Coming back. I...I-I didn't think you would.”

"I...I wasn't sure I would, either." 

It breaks his heart to hear that, to know with certainty that she _shouldn't_ have, but God, he's never been made happier by someone else's misguidance. 

"What happened…" he begins, because this _isn't_ about him, not right now. This is about Eve. This is about how he'd hurt her.

Maybe that's another reason he deserved it. He's hurt so _many_ people, hasn't he? 

"What _did_ happen, Malcolm?" 

He shakes his head, helplessly. "There are...things. Wh-when I told you I was complicated...Eve, I meant it." 

"I know you did," she says. "I'm...complicated, too. I just...I want to understand." 

Malcolm licks his lips, steadies himself. It's not that he didn't know this conversation would need to happen if Eve ever came back, but...he hadn't thought she would. Now that she has, now that they're here, words are difficult. 

"I was having a nightmare," he finally tells her. "Seeing someone. It's—it's why I have restraints on my bed. But...after we…I fell asleep with you, and I shouldn't have. I'm not...safe. I can't just _do_ that."

She seems to take the explanation well. She doesn't seem uncomfortable, or angry that he hadn’t told her before, that he’d made the mistake in the first place. In fact, she seems _more_ interested, though he doesn't know why. 

"Who were you seeing?" she asks, and he swallows hard. It takes him a moment to respond.

"A girl. One of my father's victims." 

"The girl with the bracelet," Eve says, “right?"

He gives a solemn nod. "I found her...when I was ten. She was...in my father’s trunk, in the basement. And...my father...drugged me to make me forget about her. I didn’t remember, not with all the details, until a few months ago. She’s been haunting me my entire life, but...that made her become...more _persistent_.”

She runs her thumb gently along each of his fingers, and he relaxes, just a bit. He gnaws at his lip, reaches up to pick dry skin from it.

“...And now?" she asks.

Malcolm glances behind him, at John, and shakes his head. "No. She's gone now."

He doesn’t want to tell her _why._ He wants Eve to stay. He wants that to be the end of it, but instead, Eve doesn't let it go. "What happened to her? In...real life, I mean? Do you...do you remember?” 

“I don’t, um...I…” _No._ No, she can’t know, she shouldn’t be asking—he killed her, murderer, _murderer!_

"Malcolm," she says, pulling him closer, and he lets her, because he's scared it'll be the last time if he can’t keep himself quiet.

"It's okay. You can talk to me.”

He breathes slowly, trying to quell the panic, as if he ever can.

“I don’t want to.” He closes his eyes tightly, trying to force it all away. “I can’t.”

“You can,” she pushes. “I—do you know...who she was? A name? If...she’s alive?”

Her grip on Malcolm's hand is becoming nearly painful. An inch or two up, and she'd be squeezing the rings of bruising around his wrist. He tugs, gently, but she doesn't release him, doesn't seem to even realize she's doing it at all.

"Eve…?" 

' _Murderer. She hates you, little Malcolm. She can tell you're your father's son.'_

_No, I didn’t mean to—please, please, please—_

"I—I don't know who she was. The Girl. She—I don't know. Eve, m-my hand…"

She looks down at where she's gripping him, and quickly lets go with a gasp. “Sorry...I’m so sorry.”

He holds it to his chest, tears in his eyes. He can’t help but wonder if this is more punishment, more karma. Giving him another taste of what could have been, getting his hopes up and then dropping them back down. 

_‘Filthy sinner. Filthy whore.’_

"I'm sorry,” he chokes. “I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t. I think—no, I—I did. I tried to help her. I—I _remember._ Sometimes. M-mostly blurry. S-so long ago. Dad...took me camping. To that cabin. He made me—and I ran, and—she—she—" 

He squints, heart pounding in his chest. "I tried to help her, after Dad...I...I had a knife, and I tried to—"

So cold, so _frightened,_ curled under the dashboard while chains rattled in the back.

_Bad, evil, evil—_

_‘Help me.'_

So much fear, in his breathing,in her voice—

_'Please. I...I need to go home. To my mom, my sister.’_

He flinches back. He stares at her, suddenly unable to breathe.

A sister. The Girl had a sister. She told Malcolm about her...told Malcolm—

_‘Her name is Eve._ ’

“No,” he says quietly.

_‘She’s beautiful. She wants to help people.’_

That isn’t possible. No. He’s remembering wrong, he’s—

“Eve,” he manages finally. For once, it’s not him that’s refusing eye-contact.

_'My name is—'_

“ _Adeline_ ,” he says.

Eve covers her mouth, squeezes her eyes shut, and _sobs._

“Oh, my God,” Malcolm whispers. “Eve, I—"

" _No,"_ she says. "She can't—no. She's not—" 

Malcolm’s lungs ache, seized in fear. 

No. _No, no, no. God, no. Please._

"I'm sor—s—I'm _sorry_. Eve. _Eve_ —I didn't—I didn't—Eve, p-please, _please_ —no, it—no. That can't—"

She moves so suddenly he jumps, as if she was going to strike him. He wouldn't blame her if she did, but instead he pulls something from the glove compartment and then clutches it to her chest.

A photo, he realizes. It’s a photo of—

“Is that—?”

"I can't…" she mumbles. "I can't…"

Things start falling into place, ever slowly, piece by piece. "You came to my mother because you knew.”

"I didn't _know_ ," she says. "I _thought_. I tracked her here, and I thought maybe—I just wanted answers. I wanted—I wanted to find out what happened to her. But I-I swear, I only knew for sure after I saw the bracelet.”

The bracelet his mother had put out to the news the night Malcolm had been taken. 

And Malcolm understands, all at once, that she didn’t come back for him. That this was never the only luck he’s had in his life, that Eve didn’t simply appear one day out of the goodness of the universe. 

"You had sex with me," he says, brokenly. "You—did you—?"

She doesn’t answer. Malcolm doesn't mean to whimper so _loudly_.

Used. He was used. Again.

' _It's all you're good for, little Malcolm.'_

Tears in his eyes, John’s hand on his hip, Malcolm whispers, “You called me beautiful.”

She makes a sound, maybe stifles a sob. Her hair falls in front of her face, like she’s hiding behind it, and Malcolm should have known. He should have known, never should have been such a _fool_.

"Malcolm, I—I'm sorry. You _are._ But I—I was wrong. It was a mistake. It was never supposed to go that far, I was never—never supposed to _feel_ anything for you, I—I—"

Malcolm can't be mad. He knows he can't, because _he killed her sister._

But he's sad. He's so, _so_ fucking sad. He didn't think he could ever feel lower than the past month but _Christ_ if this hasn't pushed him there. He has the urge to escape, to leave the car and walk until he can't anymore, or better yet, walk right out into the street. 

"Show me," he says instead, and that might be worse. "Sh-show me. Please."

Her hands are trembling, her breath quivering, and she shakes her head. "I don't know if I can.” 

He reaches out. He knows it's the wrong choice only after he does it, after Eve flinches and screws her eyes shut, and he pulls back. 

It _hurts._ It burns, deep inside Malcolm's chest, and he tastes bile and sorrow at the back of his tongue. 

" _Please_ ," he says again, and she slumps. She _relents._

She tilts the picture towards him, and Malcolm feels as though the entire world stops around him.

Blood rushes in his ears. His chest aches for air he can't take in. 

He stares at the photo, and he sees her. 

Her.

_Her_.

He reels back, faced with the horror of what he's done. Of who he's _killed_.

Of Malcolm Whitly's first victim. 

_'But not your last, hmm, boy? Oh, I’m so proud of you.’_

"Tell me," she says, and he jumps. He bats away John’s hands, desperate, and wraps his arms around himself.

"Tell me she’s okay. Tell me she’s alive. Tell me there’s a _chance._ Please.”

He can't. He wants to, and he can't. He can't do _anything_. "I'm sorry. She's...that's…her. That's her."

He breathes out, and says, “She’s dead.”

She crumples. He sees her heart, her hope, shatter in front of him, and it hurts more than anything else. "No. No, no, _no._ Tell me no!"

Helplessly, he shakes his head. Eve clutches the picture back to her chest and cries harder, and Malcolm is somehow too numb to.

The Girl. The one that's haunted him for his entire life.

Her. 

_Her._

He covers his eyes. The image of her is burned into his lids. He knows her name. They have her bones. 

She's still dead. He know _everything,_ and it's changed nothing.

He wants to die, right here and now. He wishes he'd ended it all the night she left, or any of the other hundred times he’d planned it out. Avoided John, avoided the truth, avoided _this._

But he didn’t. He was weak. Always too weak. Always weak...fragile...nothing. He’s _nothing._

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He ducks his head, expecting her anger at any moment. He _wants_ it, and won’t fight back.

He's surprised when she instead says, "You were _ten."_

Is she…

Defending him? _Him?_

"It was your father."

That's right. She still doesn't know.

"No," he says. "It was me."

She stops crying, her eyes wide as they land to meet his, and for once he doesn’t look away. _Can’t._

" _What?_ " 

He explains. With stuttered, barely finished sentences, he explains. The slip of the knife, the desperation, the fear.

He didn't mean to. He knows he didn't. He makes sure _she_ knows he didn't. 

But it happened. It still happened. Intent doesn't change a goddamn thing. 

He tells her she can do whatever she needs to. That she can yell at him. _Hurt_ him, even. He does start to cry, then, and _begs_ her to. 

She doesn't. 

She cries, face buried in her arms against the steering wheel, and then simply drives him home, the ride long and silent.

He doesn't know what to _do._ She pulls up outside his place, and is still quiet as he gets out. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, a last try, though he's not sure what his goal is. Does he really believe somewhere inside that this is something she could forgive him for? 

"I know," she responds, and he can't decipher a damn thing about her demeanor because he's too scared to look up, but he doubts it's anything more than her trying to convince herself. "I know you are, Malcolm. I just...I need…”

Time. Space. To never see Malcolm again, not ever.

He only just resists his knees threatening to give out, watching as she leaves, and then somehow manages to climb the stairs, blinded by his tears.

He’s going to down every fucking pill he has and—

He opens the door, and Gil shouts, from across the room, " _Bright!"_ so loud that it makes him cry out.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Gil seethes, and though he doesn’t advance, Malcolm presses back against the door, eyes wide, because Gil has _never_ sounded so _furious._

"You just go off and _leave?_ After what we all just went through? Are you _insane?_ You can't do that to me! You _can't!_ Your mother called, and I—I had to tell her you were here, sleeping, because I couldn't tell her you disappeared again! I almost called for another search, I—"

Malcolm starts to sob again, and Gil cuts off. Everything about him softens, and regret weighs his voice as he asks, “Jesus...kid, what happened?”

Malcolm can’t answer. He can’t. 

He collapses. Gil is only just quick enough to catch him before he hits the ground, sinking to his knees and cradling him. 

“Bright…Bright, come on...talk to me…what happened?”

Malcolm whimpers, and he cries, and he doesn’t answer. Still can’t. There's nothing he can force past his lips but helpless, incomprehensible sputters that do nothing to ease the tension in Gil’s body, the worry creasing his forehead. 

It’s only when he’s out of tears, when Gil has been rocking him in complete silence for God knows how long, that he finally whispers, “Eve.”

“What about her?”

Malcolm laughs, though he’s not sure why. It reminds him of the hysteria he’d experienced in the cellar. 

_‘Tell him what you did, my Malcolm.’_

“The Girl.” 

_Adeline, Adeline, her name—_

“Her name was Adeline,” he chokes out. “She was Eve’s sister.”

“ _What?_ How do you—”

“A picture,” Malcolm says. “She...showed me a p-picture. It was—it was her. It was _her._ It was...I...I—I k-k—I killed her _sister_ , Gil.”

Gil denies it again, because of course he does. Always trying to protect Malcolm, when Malcolm doesn’t deserve to be protected. “You didn’t—”

“You weren’t there! You don’t know!”

“You didn't _mean_ to, if you did. You were ten, Bright. Jesus, you were _ten._ " 

_And already a killer._

"It doesn't _matter._ It was an accident. I didn't _want_ to. But I still did. I tried—I tried to…"

He tries to explain what happened Gil, too, but Gil shushes him, holds him close and pets his hair, and Malcolm gives up.

"Please...d-don't be mad, Gil. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have gone. I should've stayed, I didn't mean to…"

"I'm not…" 

"You _yelled."_

Gil sighs heavily. "I did. I'm sorry. You scared the hell out of me. Every time I wake up...I'm afraid that you're gone again. And this time you _were._ And I didn't see your note right away, I just—I just panicked. I shouldn't have yelled. Please don't do that again, okay? You have to promise me. I need to know where you are. I love you.”

Malcolm nods, sniveling. “P-promise. L-love you, too.”

"Thank you. Just relax, okay? I'm not mad at you. And Eve…"

"She hates me," Malcolm says. "She does."

"I don't think so, kid."

It doesn't matter what Gil thinks. Malcolm knows. He _knows._

He looks over Gil's shoulder, at John admiring the axes on his wall, and he trembles, hiding his face.

"I remember now," he mumbles. "I remember last night. What happened. What I saw."

"Yeah?"

"I saw him there." He points towards the cases of weapons, and draws closer to Gil. "I want—I want to get rid of them."

"What ones?"

" _All of them,_ " he says after a moment, shaking his head. "He—he— _hurt me_ —"

Gil grasps the back of his neck, and he cries. "I want them _gone._ "

"They're yours," Gil says. "Not his. Those are _yours,_ Bright."

A lie. Just a lie.

"Nothing's mine," Malcolm says, closing his stinging eyes. "Nothing. Not anymore. Not even me.”

Gil _shudders._ Malcolm feels it go through both of their bodies. 

"That's not true, kid,” Gil says, and his voice is suddenly hoarse, though Malcolm's far too exhausted to even begin to wonder why. “You’re your own.”

_‘Mine.’_

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t know what else to do, how else to respond, and Gil seems to sense the subject will go nowhere good if he continues.

“I promise you, Bright. I promise. Come on. You should be asleep. You had a long night, and you've got therapy, and the doctor’s after.”

Malcolm groans. Gil too easily lifts him up, bringing him back to his bed. 

"I don't want to go."

"To which one?”

"Either.”

“Non-negotiable. Your stitches have to come out today. And you _like_ Gabrielle, so why not?"

He looks at the panda bear set on his nightstand, and back at Gil. "I don't want to...feel like _that_ again.”

“You didn't know, kid. And...you were happy."

Malcolm lowers his head. Everyone could certainly stand him better if he could just _shut his mouth_ and be okay, couldn’t they? 

He’s embarrassing. Gil’s never going to let him back to work like this, not ever. 

And God, he needs to work. He _needs to._

So he has to be good. He has to do what he’s told. He has to go to therapy, and the doctor, and take his fucking sedatives, and--

_‘Be a good boy.’_

He flinches. Gil frowns at him, and he turns onto his side, faces his back to Gil.

He doesn’t need him. He _doesn’t need him._ He needs to be _okay,_ and that’s it. That’s all. That’s all he fucking needs, he just—God, please—please, let him just _be okay again._

“Bright…” Gil starts, and Malcolm ignores him. There’s nothing he can say, nothing Gil can say, that can make anything any better.

Gil lets out a long breath, laying blanket after blanket onto him, up to his neck.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says.

Malcolm doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to dream. He doesn’t want to wake up afterwards. 

But he will. He will, because he has to. 

He couldn’t save Her. He couldn’t save any of the others.

He couldn’t save himself. 

But he will _not_ let others suffer like him. Every day he stays home, helpless, like _this,_ people could be dying. The team could need him, and they’d never _tell_ him. 

Would they even look to him for answers anymore, after seeing him like _that?_ Would they want to look at him at all?

He squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t about him. His life has never been about _him._ It’s been about others, the lives he can spare.

The lives he can never, ever bring back. 

He refuses to respond to Gabrielle’s prying in therapy. He doesn’t care when Gil has to be the one to tell her he’s been seeing John, or when they increase the dose of one of his medications. He sobs himself hoarse at the clinic, clutching Gil’s hand and covering his eyes as they remove the stitches, as more people see John’s goddamn marks of ownership over his possession. 

They don’t ask, but Malcolm can only imagine their thoughts, their judgement, their _disgust._

Nowhere near what he feels himself, glancing down even when Gil tells him not to as Gil buttons his shirt up again. Gash after gash, mark after mark...forever... _forever._

“You’re okay,” Gil tries to soothe him, helping his shaking form back into the car, but he’s not. And Gil _knows_ that. He gives Malcolm another painkiller, maybe to give him a fucking reprieve for a minute, and Malcolm doesn’t resist.

‘ _Everyone will know when they see, little Malcolm. Think of it.’_

He curls into himself, feeling so _alone_ even when Gil cradles him, and _does_ think about it, the possibility of the video ending up on the news, on the most depraved parts of the internet.

He thinks about people like John—and people _worse_ than him—seeing it. 

_Enjoying it._

Watching his pain, his suffering, the worst moments of his life. Sharing it with each other.

_Getting off to it._

Just like John had, on his laptop, while Malcolm lay unconscious in the cellar afterwards.

“I can't do this," he weeps, and Gil pets through his hair, fingers stroking through the strands, gently scratching at his scalp.

“You can.”

“I c- _can’t, Gil, I—"_

“We’re right here with you, okay? You’re not alone. You’re not. We’re right here. _I’m_ right here. I’m not leaving you. I promise. Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

Malcolm breathes in, and coughs out, _“I don’t want to.”_

Gil brings him closer. Malcolm knows it hurts him to keep hearing the truth. “I know. But you have to. For your mom, for Ainsley, for me.”

Unwillingly, Malcolm does, taking in slow, shallow gasps. “It hurts. Everything hurts, Gil.”

Gil kisses his forehead, holds the back of his neck. “I know. But it won’t hurt like this forever.”

Malcolm doesn’t believe him. It’s going to hurt for as long as he’s miserably alive. _John_ is going to hurt him, because nothing, _nothing_ will _ever_ make him go away.

Except...maybe…

Malcolm pulls back, suddenly quiet. Gil holds him by the shoulders, and asks if he’s going to be sick. 

“No, I—I—I want to see him,” he says. “John. I—I want to see his body.”

“No,” Gil says, gripping him a little tighter. “Kid, he’s dead. I swear to you.”

Malcolm shakes his head. It’s _not good_ enough. It will never be good enough. “No. No, I need to see. I need to see, Gil, I need to—”

“Bright, _no._ ”

“Let go of me—why are you—I need to—"

“There’s nothing left,” Gil grits out, and Malcolm startles. John's hand leaves his side. 

“Wh...what do you mean, there’s nothing?”

"It means there's nothing. It means I saw him, Bright. They could only identify him by his dental records."

By his teeth.

There was nothing identifiable left but _teeth._

"I killed him," he murmurs, and Gil squeezes his shoulders.

"You had to. It doesn’t count. But he's dead. I promise. He was...torn apart.”

Rendered unrecognizable. "By _me?"_

Gil hesitates. It's _just_ long enough for tears to well up in Malcolm's eyes again.

“No," he says. "You were half-dead. We think what wasn’t the animals was Martin.”

"Dad…" Malcolm is starting to feel the drowsy effects of the medicine, stumbling over his words. "He...saved me. I...I don't know why…I need to…I need to see him.”

"Not yet. Please. Give yourself another week to heal, I'm begging you."

"Then I can...come back?"

Gil heaves out his breath. "It hasn't been that long, Bright. Work with me, okay? Please?"

"No. It's been...what...day is it? When did they find me? How long ago?”

Gil sets his jaw. He doesn't respond for a moment, thinking over the answer, and then his face falls. Malcolm doesn't understand why.

"How many days?" 

"Nineteen," Gil says at last.

Nineteen.

Just nineteen.

Malcolm smiles weakly. A laugh slips out. 

"You're right," he says. "That's not very long at all."


	27. Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the wait! I love you guys 🥺♥️ I am very happy with how these last chapters are turning out! I hope they are enjoyable ♥️ Thank you for sticking with me!
> 
> TW for Malcolm being sad, Hallucina-John being creepy, some self-harm behaviors, suicidal thoughts, some severe dissociation, and some mentions of PTSD.

Swinging his legs as he sits up on the examination table, looking at toys scattered on the floor, Malcolm feels more like a frightened child than he should.

He doesn’t _have_ to be here, he reminds himself. He’s choosing to be. He _wants_ to be, because something is _wrong._

The doctor greets him kindly, but doesn’t waste any time in making Malcolm regret his choice to come. He asks what happened to Malcolm's hand, and then gestures to his own mouth and adds, “And what’s going on here?”

Malcolm ducks his head, reaching up to touch a finger to one of the scabs on his lips from the way he unconsciously keeps picking skin off of them, only ever coming back to himself when his fingers and nails are coated in blood. "Ah—nervous habit. Cold weather. Broke my finger, it's—I'm—I’m not here for any of that."

"Alright...what are you here for?"

He sighs, aggravated. “I’m just… _sick_.” And he can’t go back to work _sick._ He just has to make it through this, get antibiotics or a stronger syrup than the useless ones he picked up from the store, and then he can _prove_ to Gil he can come back. 

“Well, you’re definitely in the right place,” the doctor replies, smiling.

_‘Smile, little Malcolm. Smile back like the tease you are.’_

Malcolm shrinks, brings his fingers up to his mouth, starts picking skin away again. 

He does it without knowing, most times, but he likes the pain of it. He likes the way it makes him bleed, the way he's caused the discoloration, the scabbing.

It means it’s not pretty anymore. It means no one is going to look at it and want to abuse it like John. It's a _relief_ , one no one else could possibly understand. 

“It’s my throat,” he says finally, licking a droplet of blood from his fingertip and remembering where he is, that there’s someone watching. "Nothing helps. I think I may have strep.”

“Well, we can certainly do a test. How long has it been?”

His reply is _three weeks,_ but it’s been twenty-three days exactly since his rescue. Maybe, he thinks, if he had been held for twenty-three days instead of nineteen, maybe he’d allow himself to feel a bit more. At twenty-six days, a bit of trauma would have been reasonable, to be expected. A month, and maybe he'd forgive it. Two months. 

Never leaving. Still being with John, like in his nightmares. John having had time to claim him every way he wanted to, just like he'd promised, again and _again—_

He doesn’t know what sound he makes, but the doctor snaps him back to reality by asking if he needs water, if he’s _okay._

He is. He is. He has to be. He sent Gil home days ago. He’s living on his own. He’s gasping and shaking through constant panic attacks, he’s had a second and third lock installed on his door, he’s fucking terrified every second conscious and asleep, but he’s okay. He’s okay. He’s fine.

"Any fever?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Other symptoms?”

Another shake.

“Are you sexually active?”

Malcolm flinches, crosses his legs, and snaps, “ _No._ ”

John leans over, tries to kiss him, and Malcolm turns away, leans back against the wall to avoid it like it didn't already happen, like it won’t just happen again and _again._

_Not real, not real, not real._

Not now. But it was. It used to be. 

The doctor looks him over. Malcolm doesn’t _like_ that. He doesn’t ever want to be looked at again, not by anyone. _Maybe_ by Gil. _Maybe_ his mother. Ainsley. Dani. JT. They can. He trusts them. He trusts them not to hurt him. They would _never_ hurt him, no matter how many times John says otherwise, no matter the disgusting things he tells Malcolm and how convincing he makes them seem.

“Alright, Mr. Bright. I’ll just need a urine sample, and we’ll test for strep. Let me take a look first, okay?”

He stands up, and Malcolm reaches up to loosen his tie just a bit as sweat prickles on his forehead. 

_‘He’s going to touch you,’_ John tells him. He only tells Malcolm bad things, _lies,_ but not this time. _‘Touch that pretty mouth like only I should.’_

Malcolm’s hand, always in some state of vague trembling nowadays, really starts to shake. The doctor glances at it, then up at him, and asks, “Are you okay?”

“I feel a bit nauseous, actually,” he rasps. 

“Often?”

Malcolm rubs his arm, tugging his sleeve down to hide the tremor. “Yes.”

“Does eating help or make it worse?”

He figures lying won’t make a difference. He can’t hide the way his bones stick out. Gil told him yesterday that he'd spoken with Jessica, and they'd agreed that if he didn’t gain weight soon they were going to have to send him away again. Malcolm feels _betrayed_ by it, because he knows that every time Gil holds him Gil is thinking about it, about just how damn _fragile_ he's become. 

He still can't refuse Gil's arms whenever Gil's around. He doesn't feel safe unless he's being held. Otherwise, John can get to him, and John _will_. No one else's touch is comfortable, and he can hide his face in Gil's shoulder, his neck, pretend for just a while that it solves everything when nothing really changes.

“Worse...but the pain makes eating difficult."

“You’re quite underweight for your height…you've been losing weight for longer than three weeks. Is there anything else going on?"

“Other than having been kidnapped and starved?" Malcolm says, and even startles _himself_ with the abruptness of his honesty. It just doesn’t seem to _matter_ anymore, much like everything else. “Not much."

The man looks surprised. Malcolm thinks he should be proud to have given off such an air of normalcy that it wasn’t _obvious_ he was fucked beyond repair. 

“I’m s—I’m so sorry, Mr. Bright. Are you seeing someone to—”

“My throat hurts,” Malcolm interrupts. “That’s it. That’s why I’m here.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Mr. Bright...I’d like to draw some blood, too...make sure you’re as healthy as you can be, all things considered. Is that alright with you?”

Malcolm shrugs, eyes on the floor. He hears the metallic sound of John's knife, and blood spatters across the linoleum. “Whatever.”

“Alright. Let me just take a look at you.”

' _Oh, who wouldn't want to? Such a beautiful sight.'_

Malcolm wrings his hands in his lap as the doctor washes up in the sink. John sits beside him, hand pressed into the small of Malcolm's back, and Malcolm trembles, trying his best to ignore it. The last thing he needs right now is this doctor's opinion on his sanity, or to end up institutionalized for having a breakdown here.

The man grabs a penlight from his pocket and approaches, and instinctively Malcolm tilts his head down. John praises him for it.

“Look straight ahead, if you could.”

It takes far too long for him to force himself to raise his eyes, and when the light shines into them he’s blinded, shaken, reminded of the one John had turned on him so the camera could properly capture every bit of fear he experienced as he murdered a girl, as he was—

He squeezes his hand between his thighs. He bites his lip and holds himself in place as he feels his lungs seize, threatening to pull him into hyperventilation.

_Please, please, please. Not right now._

The doctor grabs for a tongue depressor, puts it a few inches from Malcolm's lips, and says, “Open your mouth.”

‘ _For me, Malcolm. Open up—’_

Malcolm’s back smacks against the wall. His head aches where it hit. The doctor stares at him, confused, coming too close to his mouth with the stick, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

_‘Gonna take it just like this, with my—’_

Malcolm claps his hands over his mouth. The doctor stares at him, looks down at the stick, and then lowers it out of Malcolm's view.

"Don't want that?" he asks, and Malcolm shakes his head. 

"Alright. Can I just take a look with my light?" 

_No. No, no, no._

Every muscle in his body is tensed, coiled like a spring as his brain tells him to run, to _escape._ But he came for a reason. He came here to go back to work. So very, very slowly, Malcolm uncovers his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and opening it.

_'Beautiful.'_

He chokes, whining, and then blinks up at the doctor.

"It's not inflamed," he says, cupping Malcolm's neck, and Malcolm's mouth falls open in a gasp. It's over before he can really react, before he can _scream_ , before he can completely fall back into the horror of John strangling him.

He still violently flinches away, unable to take a breath, heart pounding in his chest as the doctor hums curiously. 

"And your glands aren't swollen. No fever...I don't think there's an infection."

"No?" Malcolm coughs out. That doesn't make _sense._ It _hurts_. There has to be a _reason._ What other explanation _is_ there?

"We'll definitely test, just to make sure. We'll get your blood first, though…" 

Malcolm imagines the man's afraid he'll run off before they can finish. He finally sucks in air, desperately, and the doctor pulls his stethoscope up.

"Let me take a listen," he says, and Malcolm can't help the hoarse plead that spills out.

" _Please don't touch me."_

He wheezes, sounds far sicker than he is, but the doctor listens. He _listens,_ and he backs off. He doesn't ask again.

He must be drawing conclusions in his head, and Malcolm's glad he can't look up to find out. He doesn't want to know what's being thought of him. He wants to go home.

The doctor directs him to the hallway bathroom before leaving him alone for the nurses to take care of. He gives them their sample, splashes cold water on his face and takes a long few minutes to calm himself down before returning to sit back on the table.

He rolls up his sleeves, poking at his veins to see where they might be able to draw blood from with a grimace. He knows he hasn’t been drinking enough, either distracting himself with the pain and control of his empty stomach or too nauseous to bother trying, and he doesn’t expect it to be anything but difficult.

John grabs his arm, presses his thumb into the pinprick scars at the bend of his elbow. Just like he had in the cellar—the cellar Malcolm is definitely _not in_ anymore.

_'Sinner,'_ he says, just as a smiling woman enters.

Malcolm doesn't know what there's to be so happy about. He can't _imagine_ waking up and _enjoying_ the thought of what's to come. It makes him jealous, and it makes him very, very sad.

“Your name is Bright!” she says, rubbing salt in every one of his wounds. “That’s such a wonderful, happy name.”

He doesn’t mean to start crying, and he definitely doesn’t mean to shout as he replies, “ _Yeah!_ ”

She looks completely terrified, the smile dropping from her face. Malcolm feels a sick sense of satisfaction about it.

“S-sor-sorry, I—I don’t like needles,” he manages to say, and it seems to calm her down just a little. 

“That’s okay! I don’t think anyone does. But they're really not so bad. It'll be in and out in a flash, okay?”

He controls himself down to snivels, nodding, and she wipes down his arms, switches from one to the other trying to locate a place to take blood from, and then finally inserts the needle.

“See?” she encourages, patting his hand. “Not so bad.”

“There are worse things,” Malcolm agrees. He doesn’t know what in his tone makes her smile falter again, but she doesn’t say much after that, bandaging him and then leaving with the vials.

‘ _About how much blood do you think you lost for me, little Malcolm?’_ John asks. 

Malcolm rips the bandaid off, wondering if he could bleed to death from such a tiny hole, and is rather disappointed to find it’s already stopped.

A second woman, less giddy than the first, comes to him for the test. She doesn't bother with pleasantries. She unwraps the test swab, tells him to open his mouth, and then immediately shoves it in the moment he manages to without a single word of warning. 

Something... _happens._ Something in his head flashes, hits him like a bolt of lightning, there and gone in the same instant.

“What the _hell?”_

Malcolm blinks. Black spots dance in his eyes, slowly fading away, and he realizes she’s holding her hand, the swab on the floor halfway across the room. Had he... _hit_ her? No, he doesn’t...he doesn’t remember, what’s—?

“S-sorry—” Malcolm slides off the table, backing away. “S-sorry. Never mind. No, I—I’m fine. I—” He gags, covers his mouth, and then shakes his head. “I’m _fine._ ”

  
“What are you—”

“I _said no!_ Stop!" 

The woman steps back, and Malcolm takes a moment to realize he's _cowering_ , acting as if she’s going to beat him with an axe handle, or shove her hand—

Malcolm darts out of the room, out of the office, and throws up bile in the bushes outside. John rubs his back, cooing to him, and Malcolm tries to shove him off, only managing to throw himself off-balance, nearly toppling over the railing he’s gripping onto.

Something is—wrong, something—

“Hey, kid—” someone says, _too close,_ and he shouts for them to _stay away,_ holding his hands over his ears because everything is _too goddamn loud._

And then, too quiet.

He has no idea how he gets home. He’s walking down the street one moment and then unlocking his front door the next. He stares down at his keys, at a hand that doesn’t look or _feel_ like his own, and holds it up. His fingers don’t seem to move when he wants them to, don’t seem to be _real._ He takes a breath, trying to piece together _something,_ but it’s black. Like nothing existed between here and the street. 

_‘All a dream,’_ John tells him. _‘It’s just proof.’_

He hears his pulse racing in his head as he braces himself on the stairs, and he's _scared._ He's always fucking scared. There’s nothing else inside of him left but _fear._

He lays down on the floor, because it just seems like the right thing to do, and stays there for sometime. 

He stares at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fist, and rubs at his wrist, at the healing bruises and marks that the cuffs had left in his skin, some of them permanent. Not there anymore. The chains are _gone._ He would have woken up by now. He would have. He _would have._ It was just...a lapse in memory. Nothing more. It meant _nothing._

Eventually the new phone in his pocket beeps, and feeling slowly comes back to his body, inch by inch, until he’s cognizant enough to take it out and read the message on the screen. It’s Gil, asking how the visit went, and he lies. 

_90% healthy,_ he responds. _I'm a bit underweight._

_They were observant. Want me to come fix dinner tonight?_

He wants to tell Gil to come _now._ He _needs_ him to. Instead, he lies again.

_No. Thanks. I'll get take-out._

_Sure. Let me know if you need me._

He covers his face, desperately holds back tears and then fails, like he always does.

He shouldn't need Gil. He shouldn't need _anyone._

_'You have me,'_ John says, and Malcolm curls onto his side. ' _I'm the only one you deserve.'_

"I don't deserve you," Malcolm hisses. It isn’t the first time he’s acknowledged the goddamn _ghost_ haunting him, but every time he does, John seems to talk to him more, seems to have more power over him than he did. 

John laughs, the sound echoing in Malcolm’s ears. 

_'Don't lie to your savior, boy.'_

He whips his switch across Malcolm's back, and Malcolm yelps, scrambling up and pressing up against the nearest wall, eyes wide. 

He shouldn't feel _pain,_ it shouldn't _hurt,_ he shouldn’t feel blood dripping down his back when he knows it’s not there, when he knows, _maybe,_ that _John isn't real._

He searches the room, but John is gone. Malcolm is alone again, _for now._ He fits his hand up under his shirt, touching at the raised scabbing, but his fingers don’t come back red. He hates that he almost expected them to. He feels over the wounds there, then on his chest, and then doubles over with a sob.

He can’t do this...he _can’t..._

He grabs a glass, fills it with whiskey and downs it fervently despite knowing damn well he still has sedative in his system from the night before, waiting until he can no longer see straight before he staggers his way to bed.

The interaction clouds his head, his judgement, and he's more than grateful for it. In the haze, he forgets he shouldn't sleep. He lays down as if nothing is wrong, as if things are normal, as if he's _okay,_ and drifts off.

But he isn’t okay, and he dreams of the cellar. Of The Girl, of John, of Eve. He wakes with a scream, soaked in sweat, and then fades out again and dreams of his father. This time he's crying when he opens his eyes, face buried in his wet pillow, to the sound of his doorbell buzzing incessantly.

It isn’t Eve. He knows that for sure. He hasn’t heard from her since that morning, four days ago, and neither has his mother. He doesn’t think they’ll ever hear from her again, and, for her sake, that’s best.

He groggily drags himself over to the speaker, and is startled to hear, as a response to his cautious greeting, _JT’s_ voice.

“Gil said you’re a damn liar who doesn't even _like_ take-out. So…open up. We got candy. And, you know, _normal_ people food.”

Malcolm almost laughs. Almost. _Almost._

Then shame creeps up on him, flushes his skin hot, and he’s afraid. 

_We?_

He hasn’t seen them, _talked_ to them, since they saw.

And now they’re bringing him _gifts?_

He buzzes them in, opens the door, and pulls his coat off the rack, putting it on and buttoning it over his wrinkled clothes. 

He backs up, intimidated by the sound of footsteps on stairs—not John, not the cellar, he’s _not there—_ and the second JT sees him he stops, and there’s a muffled grunt from behind him. 

“Sorry,” he says, awkwardly, holding up a grocery bag. “Is it—okay if we come in?”

Malcolm realizes he must look _terrified,_ and he quickly relaxes his body best he can, putting on a smile that he’s sure shows as more of a grimace. “Yeah? Yes, um...y-yes.”

“We bring offerings,” Dani says from behind JT, appearing over his shoulder and holding up two more bags, and Malcolm watches in stunned silence as they enter, placing them all on his counter. 

“Edrisa misses the hell out of you...I have a card from her somewhere in here.”

“What...are you doing here?” he asks, and Dani turns to him.

“Gil’s got paperwork, but he let us leave early as long as we came to make sure you’re okay. Which is way easier. Costed a bag of licorice. I’m okay with that.”

“Licorice?” Malcolm asks quietly, hopefully, raising himself up on his tiptoes to peer around them, and JT scoffs. 

“It was on sale. Pretty sure you’ll never run out again. There’s also some weird-ass fancy cheese in there.”

“For grilled cheese,” Dani tells him, with a proud little smile. “Thought I could fix you some.”

They’re...they’re really here for him. To make him feel better. To make him _smile._ To take care of him.

Malcolm is horrified to find tears pricking at his eyes, to feel his breathing start to shake as he fights to keep them at bay.

They notice, perhaps from his sudden silence.

“Are you okay?” Dani asks, and he wishes she hadn’t, because it’s what breaks him. He starts to cry, stumbling back to sit on the step up to his bed.

“ _Bright,_ ” she whispers, coming to his side, and he looks up at her as Sunshine flitters down, perching on his shoulder.

“Th-thank you. Thank you. I—I’m sorry, I can’t—” He covers his mouth. “I don’t know why I—”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Tell us how to help.”

He smiles, and sniffles, and says, “You are. _Thank you._ I thought—I thought...you wouldn’t…”

JT turns away, rummaging through what they bought, and pulls out a bag of lollipops, approaching them to offer it to Malcolm. 

Malcolm looks at them, and up at JT, and _laughs._ Mercifully, it stops his tears.

"Sympathy candy…?”

" _No,_ " JT says, tossing them into his waiting hands and shifting from one foot to the other. "Like…get well candy? I don't know.”

Malcolm smiles. They still...like him. They still _want_ him. They’re here...for _him._

"Thank you," Malcolm says, so quietly. "Thank you. I don’t...I thought…”

"Did you think we’d forget about you?” Dani asks, and Malcolm shakes his head, opening the bag with a nail and fishing out a root beer, if just for something to do.

“No…”

She definitely doesn’t believe him, reaching out to take his shaking hand. “We missed the hell out of you. You...have no idea. You couldn’t. It was hell on earth, Bright.”

He looks down at their hands, twining his fingers with hers. Her breath hitches, ever so slightly, just enough to be heard, and he flushes. 

“We _missed_ you," she repeats. 

“Nothing’s been the same,” JT agrees, taking a seat on the stairs across from them. “You have to come back soon, yeah? You know how boring it’s been to solve cases with your smartass gone?”

"Boring or...impossible?" Malcolm asks shyly, and JT scoffs.

"Now you sound like you never left," he says.

Malcolm ducks his head, reaching up to pop the candy in his mouth.

And then he chokes, and gags, and spits it right back out into his lap.

He blinks hard, and doesn’t know _why._ He doesn’t—he—

“Bright…?” Dani starts, and he claps his hand over his lips. Fear curls its way into every inch of his body, an unbearable presence, until he needs to _get away,_ and he _doesn’t know why._

"I don't know—I don't want it. Get—I don't—" 

He pushes the bag away, frantically, and shies away from her touch— _stop touching me, stop, John, stop—_ "No, _stop_ , I—"

He lurches forward and starts to cry again, overwhelmed with something he doesn’t understand, a fear he can’t place the memory to. “Stop, stop, _stop—_ no—”

JT is suddenly in front of him, snatching the bag and grabbing the one discarded onto the floor by his feet, backing away slowly, hiding them from his view.

“Bright.” Dani’s hands are out, a gesture of comfort, but everything looks strange, _wrong,_ and he’s scared. He’s _so fucking scared._

“I don’t know—I don’t—" He cuts off, whimpering. "Why…? What's…?"

JT is looking at him like there's something wrong. It’s his fault, everything is bad and wrong and it’s _his fault._

“I’m sorry!” he coughs, wrapping his arms around himself. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, what’s _ever_ happening, and then—

And then hands are grasping his shoulders, and even as he yelps and tries to pull away, he’s held steady. “John—no— _don’t—”_

“ _Bright._ ”

Not John’s voice. John wouldn’t call him Bright. John called him _little boy, little Malcolm Whitly,_ that’s not John, it’s—

“Bright, John Watkins isn’t here. I am. It’s JT. Focus on my voice. Stop holding your breath. Breathe in.”

Though it feels like the most difficult thing he’s ever done, Malcolm gasps. He chokes on it, breaks out in coughs, and JT keeps him upright.

“Good. Come on. Do it again. Four seconds in, eight seconds out. _Breathe in._ ”

Malcolm responds to the order more than anything, body complying before his mind even knows it’s been spoken to. He breathes in as JT counts aloud, out, and then again. Dani’s hand holds his neck the same way Gil’s does, a comforting, familiar touch, and Malcolm slowly, slowly relaxes. 

“That’s it, kid. Doin’ real good. Keep breathing with me. Don’t think of anything else. Just focus on breathing, alright?”

Malcolm nods. He can’t speak yet, isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to speak again, but JT’s grasp, Dani’s gentle humming—it keeps him from falling apart. Eventually, his lungs work on their own without him needing to use force. His body stops trembling so hard, and his head finally lolls forward in exhaustion.

“Whoa, I’ve got you.” JT brings him closer, whisks him up off the step to hold him in his arms, and Malcolm sleepily tucks his face against his neck. It makes JT flinch but not drop him back down, and Malcolm is even more reassured.

He’s safe. Without Gil, JT and Dani can provide. 

And they _want_ to. They still want to touch him, to help him, to come fix him _dinner._

“What do you need, Bright?” Dani asks. “What can we do?”

_This,_ Malcolm wants to say, but nothing comes out. His mouth doesn't seem to want to work.

John makes a _comment_ on that, but Malcolm is okay. He's safe. JT won't let him be hurt.

He feels JT lean over, trying to put him down on his bed, and he tightens his grip and grunts his displeasure, clings to him and doesn't allow it.

"Bright…" JT sounds aggravated, but he stands back up, turns around, and sits on the edge of the bed with a resigned sigh. Malcolm snuggles into him, and JT groans and says, "Dani, _please_ call Gil." 

"Yeah, on it."

Malcolm doesn't mind waiting, as long as he can stay here.

Before Gil ever arrives, he falls asleep.

**x**

They're hiding something from him. 

Malcolm doesn't know what it is, what it _could_ be, but he knows there's something.

It's in the way they act around him. The way they tiptoe around the subject of his kidnapping like it's more painful for them than it is him. The way they _look_ at him.

He doesn't understand.

In a way, he isn't sure he wants to.

John tells him it's because they still think he's disgusting, but John tells him a lot of things, taunting every moment he's awake, always in the corners of his vision or the room. He won't leave Malcolm _alone._ The dosings on two of his medications are increased, but still, John stays.

He stays, and it makes Malcolm wish he himself could _go._ Permanently.

He doesn't sleep, if he can help it. He keeps his distance from Gil, trying to stop himself from _needing_ so much, and the nightmares have only gotten worse, more violent, more…

Wrong. There's just something _wrong._ And he doesn't know _what,_ because he can't remember, just wakes up so horrifically sick that he started having to keep a trash can by his bed because he can’t undo his restraints in time to get to the bathroom.

So as a solution, he takes caffeine pills and coffee to force himself to stay awake until he ends up collapsing somewhere and coming to several mercifully dreamless hours later, only to repeat it.

He doesn't _keep_ that from Gabrielle. He simply doesn't bring it up. She asks how he's been sleeping, and he says _not well_. She asks if his nightmares have gotten better and, while he doesn't say they've gotten worse, _no_ isn't a lie. He's _not lying._

He doesn't want to regress again, despite Gabrielle telling him it's just coping. He's done everything in his power to avoid it. He can't imagine how pathetic he looked, cuddling a stuffed animal and playing with _toys_ in Gabrielle's office.

He _knows_ it's coping. He has a degree in psychology. By logic, he should be able to be his _own_ therapist. He shouldn't need her, or Gil, or anyone. He should be okay. 

God, he just wants to be _okay._

He just wants to go back to work. He needs something, something that makes his existence _worth_ something. 

Thirty-two days since his rescue and he finally can't stay home anymore. He doesn't care _what_ they do to him for showing up, because it just can't be worse than _John._

So he dresses himself nicely, bundles in abnormally thick layers he's gotten used to because he's just never warm enough, and takes a taxi to the precinct.

It takes nearly ten minutes of standing outside to gather the courage to go in. 

And the second he walks through the door, it vanishes.

Every single person stops to look at him. The precinct goes nearly silent. Malcolm suddenly has over a dozen pairs of eyes on him, and it makes him start to shake, makes his breathing hitch and stutter as he contemplates darting right back out. 

But he can't. There are cases, people that need him. He _needs_ to be here. It's his job. It's the only reason he's still alive. 

_"Kid!"_

Malcolm jerks his head down, though he doesn't know why. 

No. He does, and that's worse.

He wonders if everyone sees. He thinks everyone _does._

Gil certainly noticed. His voice is feather-soft when he speaks again, approaching Malcolm with a look of concern.

"Bright...come here. Come to my office."

Malcolm follows, chin still tilted to the ground. 

_'My Malcolm...you submit so beautifully that it's a sin.'_

Gil closes the blinds when they get inside. _He_ can see them staring, too, and Malcolm is almost relieved that he's not just simply crazy, imagining things like usual. They were staring, and they were judging.

They probably saw the video, too, as many times as Gil has promised they didn't.

_'They're wondering how much you cost, little one. How much should you charge for a mouth like that?'_

Malcolm shakes John's hands off him, stepping closer to Gil. How can Gil even promise something like that? Were they keeping the video locked in a safe? Of course not. It’s likely somewhere in evidence...just... _there._ Available to be taken and seen by anyone who has access.

Malcolm needs to find and _destroy_ it. There’s no reason to have it anymore. John Watkins is dead. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s _dead._

"What are you doing here?" Gil finally asks, and he takes in a quivering breath. "You should be home, you should be _sleeping,_ you—"

"I can't," Malcolm says. "I just...can't."

Gil doesn’t look like he knows quite how to respond to that. He draws closer, and he’s wearing one his _softest_ turtlenecks, and Malcolm tilts his head forward, rests it against Gil's chest. He's ached to be held for _days_...

"Can I touch you?"

But he can’t be. He doesn't _need_ to be. He doesn't need comfort anymore. No more. He's _fine._ " _No_."

“Okay.” Gil almost sounds disappointed, but Malcolm can’t imagine he should ever _want_ to be forced to hold Malcolm as he breaks over and over. He’s too nice. Gil is too nice, too comforting, too understanding. Malcolm doesn’t deserve it, never has. "Okay, Bright. That's fine. But I can't…I can't let you back. I can't—"

" _Please,_ " Malcolm whispers, voice breaking as tears threaten to fall. "Please, Gil. I can't—I can't do it. I can't be alone anymore. I need something. I need _anything._ Gil, please. I'm begging you. I'm _begging you._ " 

_'Why don't you get down on your knees and—'_

Malcolm reels back. He breathes out and digs his nails into his palm, bites down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

"Look at me," Gil says.

It's a simple request. It should be a simple response. 

Malcolm flinches instead, tucking his casted hand in his pocket. 

"Can you?" Gil asks, and Malcolm nods.

"Then do it. Show me." 

A test. An impossible test. The reality that Malcolm needs to face. If he wants to come back to work, and work _efficiently,_ he needs to make eye-contact for longer than just the few seconds he’s been daring when he has a rare burst of confidence.

Slowly, Malcolm raises his head. He brings his eyes up to Gil's waist, his chest, his shoulders, and, finally, wincing, meets his eyes.

_'Do you think I can't read you, too?'_

Malcolm jerks his chin back down. Pain fires through his hand, and he's overwhelmed with fear. 

But he has to work. He has to prove himself. So with so much effort it's _painful_ , he forces his head up again.

_'You stupid little thing. Your eyes give away everything. Are you really going to make me do it?'_

Gil smiles at him, weakly, but Malcolm can barely breathe. 

It's been _a month._ He shouldn't be afraid anymore. He shouldn't be afraid at _all,_ John shouldn't have affected him, _changed_ him, this _permanently_ in nineteen fucking days.

He tugs his coat closed, hugs himself, tucks his trembling hand under his arm.

"I can...I can even be Malcolm, i-if you want," he says, though isn't sure it's the truth. Bright reminds him he's safe, that he isn't _there_ anymore. He likes it better. The name he chose for himself, not the one that had been given to him, that John had destroyed as thoroughly as his mind and body. "Just please. I can't—"

"Okay."

Malcolm blinks hard. "Okay?" 

Gil sighs heavily. "You can stay. But you're on desk work _only_ , for now."

" _Gil,"_ he breathes out. Something like happiness warms him, endorphins through his veins. He wants to hug Gil, but he refrains, afraid it's a choice that will make him seem weaker than simply taking the news.

He misses Gil's arms around him...but if this is what it takes to work, that's something he'll just have to bear.

"Thank you. _Thank_ you. I won't...I won't let you down. I swear. That's fine. Just...can't be home." 

"Alright. Your mom's gonna kill me, you know that? Hell. Go get some coffee, get settled…I'll bring you some work."

Malcolm nods, and dares to feel something positive inside, a smile inching its way into his lips. 

It doesn't last very long.

He's at the coffee maker when he hears the whispering. It starts soft, a tickle in his ear, so distant he thinks it's John, or something, some _one_ in his head. 

Then he turns around, and it stops. Two officers in the hall are looking at him, and Malcolm realizes it was coming from them.

That they were talking about him.

His entire body tenses. His hand shakes, spills hot coffee over his hand, and he grits his teeth.

They saw, didn't they? The video. That goddamned fucking video. Everyone saw. Everyone knows he's a—

_'Filthy little whore.'_

He gasps, the air snatched from his lungs. He ducks his head down and dares to walk past them. They say nothing, but their eyes never leave him, and he feels the beginning symptoms of a panic attack. He sits back down at his desk, gripping his trembling hand, and then jumps when he hears a voice from behind him.

"You were on the front page of the paper.”

"Did you really kill Watkins?" another asks. "Heard his body was _destroyed._ "

"You really are The Surgeon's kid, aren't you?"

Malcolm _whimpers._ He's not entirely sure it's actually happening, knows it could very well be just another hallucination, but he covers his ears anyways, opening his mouth to call out for Gil before—

"Back off!" 

Malcolm hears JT's voice boom through even his hands, and he feels _saved,_ sighing in relief as the officers back away, as JT bumps the back of his chair and says, "Come on."

He stands, coffee mug forgotten, and follows JT to the conference room. It looks so beautifully familiar, makes him feel so _normal,_ just for a second, that he wants to cry. 

He supposes if he was really normal, he _wouldn't_ want to cry, but there's nothing to be done about that now.

"Thank you."

"Damn idiots," JT says. "Gil told 'em all to leave you alone whenever you came back just the other day. Didn't think it'd be _now,_ but...good to see you're doing better."

There's that word again. Better. He doesn't know how to respond to that word. He doesn't think he will ever _be_ better. 

"Yeah," he says, unconvincing, sitting down in one of the chairs. Not two months, and it feels like he's been gone for years. He touches the table, smooth under his still-shaking fingers, and smiles weakly. It just feels _nice._

"You're...on a case?" he questions quietly, hopefully, and JT gives him a look. 

"Gil would hand my ass to me if I let you do a damn thing with it, you _know_ that. We're handling it just fine."

"Fine." Malcolm crosses his arms, leaning back in the chair.

"Are you…pouting?" 

"No. I'm _waiting."_

JT cracks a smile. "You're pouting. It's not gonna help."

"It does sometimes," Malcolm mutters. 

"With Gil?" 

Malcolm purses his lips. "Yeah, with Gil." 

"You've just got him wrapped around your finger, don't you?" He shakes his head, opening the door. "Look, it's nothing right now.”

“Always nothing til it’s something,” Malcolm says. JT gestures dismissively, heading out, but they’re going to need him. He’s always needed. 

‘ _Never wanted,_ ’ John tells him, _‘except maybe to—’_

Malcolm shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand trembles against the table, and he tucks it down in his lap. 

They’ll need him. He just has to wait until they realize it. Or wait until he can slide his way into the case whether they want him to or not. 

After a few minutes of grinding his teeth, shifting around in the chair in discomfort as the silence is filled with John’s stupid, _stupid_ talking, Gil brings him files and a cup of tea. 

“From Dani,” he says. “She’s—”

“At the scene?” Malcolm asks, sitting up. “I could be, too.”

“Could be, but won’t be.” Gil points at the files, then the cup. “Drink your tea.”

“ _Tea_ is not going to _fix_ what _happened,_ ” Malcolm says, and notices the way Gil tenses, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. Stressed. So stressed, all of them so damned _stressed._

“It’s dangerous,” Gil insists. “What if you have a blackout on the scene? Confronting the killer? What if—”

“My medication is working," he says. It's a lie, but he lies well enough. "And I'm not _blacking out._ I occasionally don't remember what happens. It’s dissociation. Likely I'd still be perfectly capable of handling the situation."

Gil breathes out heavily, pulling out the chair nearest to him and sitting down. He rubs at his beard, then clasps his hands in his lap. Malcolm waits for him to speak, and when Gil doesn’t, he looks around awkwardly, tapping his fingers against the table, and finally demands, “ _What?_ ” 

Gil looks up at him, and Malcolm does his damndest not to look away. His chin still tilts down, but though his eyes dart away a few times he still manages to keep the gaze as long as Gil does. 

“Maybe you could,” Gil says. “But I’m afraid, Bright. I’m terrified.”

It’s not usual for Gil to admit something like that, and Malcolm feels guilt gnawing at him for ever making him suffer in the first place. All of his attention on himself...but Gil had thought he was dead.

God, he just...he just…

He wishes he was. It would hurt them, hurt _Gil,_ but they would get over it, realize they were better off, and of course it’s selfish, but Malcolm would never have to know either way. He wouldn't have to feel the guilt anymore, the pain. He just wants to stop feeling this...stop feeling _anything,_ really.

He shakes himself, trying to focus back on what he came here to do, what he’s _alive_ to do. “You can’t keep me from work because you’re scared.”

“Not forever,” Gil agrees. "And I won’t. But I want to make sure you can handle it.”

“I _can,_ ” Malcolm insists. “Please. Let me _show_ you. I need to do something useful, Gil, or—”

He cuts off, grimacing. 

“Or what?”

“Or I’m useless,” Malcolm finishes. “I feel so useless, Gil. I feel helpless and tired and I want to d—I want to _do_ something.”

“You’re not useless, kid. You mean everything to me. You’re irreplaceable.”

“Irrelevant, apparently.”

“ _Stop._ Me wanting you safe doesn’t mean you’re not valuable. Just give me a _minute,_ Bright. _Please_. Just let me have you here, and know you’re safe. Then we can work back up to you going out." 

Arguing is going to get him nowhere. He knows that. So he nods, carefully murmuring, "Okay, Gil," in the softest tone he can. 

Gil smiles at him. Thinks he's accepted the reality of which Malcolm's only planning on finding ways around. "Okay, kid. Thank you. Let me know if you need anything. I'm right there." 

"Yeah," Malcolm says. He rests his chin in his hand, takes a defeated drink of his tea, and waits until Gil leaves.

Then he takes out his phone, dials, and holds it up to his ear.

"Mal," comes Ainsley's voice, "hi! Everything okay?"

They've all been so _delicate_ with him. It's starting to make him sick. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." _I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine._ "I was wondering if—"

"No." She laughs, and then says it again. " _No._ "

He groans. She knows him far too well. "Ains, please. Please. Just tell me what's going on! I won't go, I promise. I'll stay right here."

"Where's here? You're home, right?"

"...Not exactly."

" _Malcolm!_ Does Mom know?"

"She doesn't have to. You can just...tell me...because you love me." 

"I do love you, and that's why—"

"Great! Thank you, Ains, really, I'm—I've been having a really hard time, you know? Just really needing _something,_ uh—a distraction. Something to focus on other than...what happened to me."

Ainsley is quiet for a minute. Malcolm picks a scab off his lip and starts making another.

"Fine," she says. "Fine."

"...Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Not a lot of details right now, but—"

"Let me get a pen."

She's wonderful to him. She answers all of his questions, and though she draws the line at giving him the address, he has more than enough to work with from here.

He does wonder, vaguely, if he'll need Martin.

His hand trembles. He knows the only reason his phone isn't completely blowing up with voicemails and calls is because his father doesn't know the number. He hasn't set up an inbox on it. Gil, Ainsley, his mother, JT, and Dani know the number. He wants to keep it that way, for now.

He's...afraid. Not just of hearing from Martin again, but of _seeing_ him. The last time he had, it was before he'd taken Martin's knife and—

' _Fulfilled your mission from God._ '

He clenches his teeth, digs his nails into his palms and ignores it.

Not the time. This is simply _not the time._

They have a case.

_He_ has a case.

He does what he can with what he has. He puts together a profile that's broken and incomplete, but he's so proud it makes his eyes teary. He pops two caffeine pills from his pocket and downs more coffee, and then waits in eager anticipation for the team's return.

Useful. Finally useful. Finally something again. They'll have details for him, more that he can add, and oh, _God,_ he's fucking missed this. This is what he needs. This is what he's _needed._ Not fucking _cuddles._ Not therapy. Not medicine. _This._

The second they see him on their return, unable to hide his beaming, Dani says, " _No."_

Maybe they _all_ know him too well. "I just want to—"

"Nope. Get out. We need the room." 

"I'm not leaving," Malcolm says. "Gil said I could stay."

"Yeah, in the precinct!" JT laughs. "Come on, kid. Make this easy for us." 

"I need details," Malcolm says. "Please. I have a profile, _kind of,_ it's—"

"You're still trying to work?" Dani scoffs. "I should have known. You can't just sit still and—"

_'Behave!'_ John hisses, clapping one hand over Malcolm's mouth and shoving the other downwards, and Malcolm cries out, leaping to his feet, knocking over his third mug of coffee. JT only stands up straighter, but Dani flinches, her hand instinctively going down to her gun from the sudden movement.

It's silent for a moment as they stare at him, and, chest heaving, he tries to recover, to backtrack, to find any reason or excuse at all for him to have done that. "I, um—ah—I just—"

"Are you _okay?"_ Dani asks, and for the second time after her saying those words he feels he's going to crumble, his eyes watering. He can just picture himself curled up on the floor for all the precinct to see, or needing Gil to carry him home because his legs won't work.

" _Please—"_ he chokes out. "I need to—please…" 

He braces himself with both hands on the table, trembling. He tries to breathe steady, and he can't quite manage it.

"O-okay," Dani says. "Bright, okay, stay. Just…you're gonna hurt yourself, just—"

"St- _stay?_ " Malcolm manages, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and gasping in a breath. "Please?"

Dani looks at JT, and JT huffs. 

" _Fine,"_ he says. "I'm not gonna be the one to tell Gil, though." 

"Tell Gil _what?_ " Gil asks as he comes through the doorway, a yellow file folder in his grasp, and Malcolm straightens up.

“That I have a profile,” he rasps, and Gil looks up at the ceiling, taking in a deep breath and sighing it out.

“Of course you do.”

“Just hear me out. We’re looking for—”

“ _Bright,_ ” Gil says, and Malcolm makes the choice to ignore him completely, walking up to the board just as he would any other day, any other case.

“Bright!”

Malcolm speaks over him. He gives them what he has, gives them _everything he has._ His voice is cracking from lack of use, from a sore throat that _still_ won’t go away, and he can’t look at them. He can’t. He tries, meets JT’s gaze, and immediately has to lower his own. 

He doesn’t feel worthy enough to be up here, anymore. He looks at them and he thinks about how they’re seeing him, how they’re probably thinking about the video _right now,_ right as he stands there. 

He squirms. He doesn’t feel comfortable with their eyes on him. He wants them to _stop looking._ He feels absolutely fucking fragile. He doesn’t suppose he’s really anything else.

The three of them settle, though. They start to listen to him. They don’t try to stop him again. 

They _want_ his opinion. They know that they need it. 

They need him. They _need him._ He’s needed. 

When he’s finished, he grabs onto the caseboard, supporting himself. He’s shaking, more than noticeable enough, and Gil stands, holding out a hand.

“Are you okay?”

He’s out of breath, out of _energy,_ from nothing but a few sentences, but he nods. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” He turns around, faces the board, and shuts his eyes tight. 

_‘Are you really showing yourself off to them? Little slut.’_

“Okay,” Gil says, and it’s only luck that he speaks the very moment Malcolm whips around, making it look like he was turning to listen instead of reacting to John’s words. 

“Okay?” 

Gil gestures vaguely. “You can help. _For now._ From here. You’re not leaving this room.” He gives the folder a push, slides it across the table, and Malcolm catches it before it can fall off. 

“Y...yeah?” he asks, feeling a smile inch onto his lips. “Thank you. You won’t regret it. You won’t, Gil, I swear.”

Gil hums doubtfully, makes the sound like he’s _already_ regretting it, but he doesn't take it back. 

Malcolm opens the folder, takes in the crime scene photos, and, for the first time, feels _good_.

**x**

Though he doesn't mean to, JT finds himself watching Bright more often than not. 

The things he saw in his service were…unfathomable. Horrific. Lives lost, some right in front of him, a few in his _arms._ Sometimes he still wakes up screaming, with the taste of gunpowder and blood and tears on his tongue.

He's not always good, but he's okay. He keeps it together. He pretends even on a bad day, when he's anything _but_ alright, and things tend to go on like always. 

Bright reminds him of the others, the ones that didn't come back as whole. 

As much as it annoys him, Bright reminds him of himself.

They stay in the room while the kid goes through what they found at the scene, the lab reports that Edrisa gets back to them. Bright jumps when the air conditioner turns on. He flinches when Gil clears his throat. His eyes are always opened wide, darting around the room every minute or so to scan for danger. His body shakes despite the warmth of the room, the layers he has on, the sweat pouring down his face.

Gil notices. He says, "Why don't you take your coat off?" and Malcolm reacts like Gil insulted him. His hand is by his side, but JT sees it start to tremble.

"Why?" Malcolm asks, _demands_ , and Gil frowns, mouth opening and closing for a moment as he tries to find a response.

"You're sweating…" he finally says. “I thought—”

"I'm fine," Malcolm says, cutting his hand across the air in a strict denial _._ "No. No, don't...ask me to do that. _No_." 

Gil lowers his chin and nods. He knows better than any of them what triggers Malcolm, and how to handle them, but he looks confused about this one. Half the time JT he isn’t sure what _his_ are, either, though. He empathizes, maybe a little too much. 

Definitely a little too much, because he’s had _nightmares_ about that goddamn video. The things that were _on_ it. JT wouldn’t be surprised if _everything_ triggered the kid after that. 

And he still doesn’t know. 

JT has to look at this kid and know more about what happened to his own body than Malcolm does. 

It isn’t right, but he knows it’s the only option. It would _break_ him. JT wanted to toss the fucking card into a fire, never let him know at all. But as the days have gone on he’s felt his guilt about it all getting worse, and though he can’t look away, he’s relieved Malcolm isn’t really looking up at any of them. JT doesn’t know if he could meet them and pretend things were fine, that they all weren’t lying to his face.

Tally tells him he’s doing what’s right, waiting for Malcolm’s recovery. He has no one else to talk to but her, and Bright’s on his mind more often than not these days. But it feels more to JT like waiting for him to recover only to send him back to the beginning of it all is more cruel than anything.

He wants to be there for the kid. He never was before. He knows he was far too hard on him, and he can’t bear the thought of being anything but gentle with him now, afraid even a breath too strong will knock him off his feet. 

But he doesn’t know how. He _doesn’t know._ He hates it. He wishes he’d never watched it. He wishes Malcolm had never come back to New York, had spared himself the pain entirely. He wishes they’d been faster showing up. He wishes they could have saved him, because he thinks back to the man Malcolm had been before, and he barely recognizes him now.

When Gil leaves them, and Dani goes to her desk, JT stays. Malcolm takes a seat in the chair Gil had been in, and swallows a pill with his coffee. JT recognizes the tinfoil packaging, thinking just how _little_ Malcolm needs to be _more_ twitchy, and then Malcolm finally seems to notice him, jerking his head down. 

" _What?"_ he hisses, and JT looks away. 

“Nothing. How are you...doing?”

Malcolm glances over his shoulder, looking every bit as paranoid JT would expect, and then rubs at his lips. He’s made them bleed again already, but JT doesn’t point it out. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. I just want to work.”

JT nods, finally pushing himself up off the wall. “Okay. Welcome back, then. You, uh…” He shifts. He’s never been good at this sort of thing. “We’re here for you.”

Malcolm’s mouth twitches into something of a smile, just for a second, and he looks down again. “Thank you.”

It’s not enough. But for now, it seems to be all JT can do.

A call comes in a few hours later, letting them know the location of a sighting of their suspect, and JT has to physically block Malcolm from following them. 

"Let me!" he pleads, looking over JT's shoulder, and JT shakes his head.

" _Stay here._ You have to, Bright."

Still, the damn kid slinks his way past the moment JT turns. JT is too afraid to touch him, to make him panic, and can only watch as he bounds over to Gil as if Gil's going to tell him anything different. 

"I'm coming," Malcolm says, and Gil laughs.

"The hell you are! Stay here."

" _No,"_ Malcolm hisses, following them. "I can work. Stop treating me like I'm fragile!"

"You _are!"_ Gil exclaims, and then regret comes over his face as Malcolm's eyes fill with tears. He looks at Dani, then JT, and JT averts his gaze.

“I’m not,” Malcolm says, but he backs away. He sits back down at his desk, the one that’s sat empty since the night he was taken, facing away from them. His shoulders shake, but he keeps himself upright, pretending he's okay.

Always pretending he's okay. JT knows just how fucking exhausting that can be. 

The three of them are the first ones at the scene, an old marina.

Malcolm steps out of a taxi, and becomes the second.

JT is the only one still outside, and he grabs Malcolm by his coat sleeve. He should have _expected_ the little bastard to show up, because as much as Malcolm’s changed he’s still _Malcolm,_ but it doesn't stop him from swearing up a storm as he drags the kid to the side of the marina before Gil can come back out and see him.

"You're a _child,_ " JT hisses. "We ain't even cleared the place! You know how much danger you just put yourself in?" 

"Let go," Malcolm says, pulling at his arm. For a moment he looks panicked; then he just looks _angry._ "I have every right to be here."

"You have exactly _zero_ right!"

"Want to chain me up again, then?" Malcolm demands, and JT backs up. Malcolm's eyes shine with tears, like he somehow thinks it might actually happen. His hand shakes at his side, but he otherwise doesn’t show his fear.

"No. Shit, no."

Malcolm doesn't look relieved. He glances behind him, hisses something under his breath, and then says, "I'm here now. Just let me—"

A gunshot fires from inside, and JT crouches, grabs Malcolm's arm and pulls him down. Malcolm gasps just from the touch, pulls away like JT lashed out at him, and JT releases him.

“Damn it," JT mutters. "Stay here."

Malcolm _doesn't,_ because of _course_ he doesn’t _._ He follows JT, nearly on his heels as JT enters the marina from a side door.

"You're gonna get us all _killed!"_ JT growls, and almost, _almost_ feels bad when it makes Malcolm flinch. But he doesn’t have time. He needs to get Malcolm to leave, because if something happens to him, Gil is going to have both of their asses. "Get the fuck _out_ of here!"

Malcolm is about to say something in response, and then suddenly a slew of bullets from an automatic rifle JT did _not_ expect their killer to have knocks over the box above Malcolm’s head. 

JT doesn’t think, grabbing Malcolm and pulling him close to shield him. More bullets fly, and he loses his balance as Malcolm tries to pull _away_ from him. Maybe he should have expected it, the way Malcolm shied away from every touch prior, but he’s a little distracted by the attempt on their lives, and it ends with him tipping over and knocking Malcolm to the floor with his weight.

Malcolm chokes under him, writhing, and JT can’t even imagine the horrors going through his head to make him look _this terrified._ He suddenly can think of nothing but the video, but the way John had—

Malcolm opens his mouth with clear intent to _scream,_ and JT fears the noise will cause the man to come after them, doesn’t think he has any other choice but to clap a hand over it, shaking his head. 

“Bright, it’s me!” he hisses, and Malcolm shudders so hard it’s nearly a convulsion, his eyelids fluttering like he’s going to faint. JT looks Malcolm over, but he can’t even tell with all the layers if he’s been shot. There’s no blood, he’s not moaning in pain, but something’s _wrong—_ and then he hears shouting, Gil’s and Dani’s, and more bullets being fired in the other direction. 

“Stay down, Bright! Stay _here!_ ”

JT pulls himself up, and this time Malcolm doesn’t move at all. He’s gasping for air, clawing at the ground under him as if he’s still pinned down, but JT _can’t_ focus only on him. The others are counting on him, too. He aims his gun up and over towards where the man was a moment before, then weaves his way through boxes until he reaches where Dani has her knee in the back of their suspect and one of his arms twisted behind his back, and Gil is kicking away the rifle.

“You okay?” Gil asks, and JT nods, breathless.

“The goddamn kid is here.”

Gil’s face drops. He looks like he’s been punched in the gut. He holsters his gun with shaking hands and touches Dani’s shoulder. “Are you—”

“Go, I got him,” Dani says, brushing him off as she cuffs the man, and Gil follows JT back to where he’d left Malcolm.

Where Malcolm no longer _is,_ because the kid’s fit himself against the wall, his knees tucked up to his chest, his face buried in them.

“ _Bright,_ ” Gil says, reaching out to him, “Jesus, what are you—”

Malcolm screams, slapping Gil’s hand away the second it touches him, and Gil pulls away. Malcolm says something completely incoherent, almost a _growl,_ and Gil backs up even more, hands out.

“Kid…” he whispers, startled. “ _Bright..._ please. Please, you have to let me make sure you’re okay! Are you shot? Hit your head? JT...what happened?”

"I don't see any blood. I don’t think he got hit. But…"

"What _happened?"_

He winces. He feels guilty, and he _hates_ it. He feels just as bad as he did when Malcolm gagged on the candy _JT_ had bought and given to him without a second thought of the possibility of it triggering him. He hadn’t meant to hurt the kid then, or now. He hadn’t meant to and he’d done it anyway. “I pulled him out of the way, and we fell...I fell _on_ him.”

"Oh, Bright…" Gil sits down, just a few feet away. Malcolm whimpers, sounding so terrified, so _small,_ and JT has to look away.

"He just showed up, Gil! Out of a taxi! I tried to get him to stay. He wouldn’t.”

“It’s not your fault. I got this. Just...go. Help Powell."

"You're sure?"

"Please. Go."

JT obeys. There's nothing more he can do here. 

Dani is more than capable. She’s taken down men and women twice her size, held them steady on her own until backup arrived. 

But JT never should have left her. He should have let Gil go find the kid alone. Because when he returns to where they’d been, Dani is no longer there, and neither is the suspect. Only a droplets of blood remains on the floor, and JT pulls his gun out with a sinking feeling of dread that he knows which of them they came from.

“Powell!” he shouts. “ _Dani!”_

There’s no response. He runs straight, then to the right, through a corridor and outside before he finds her with her hands braced on her knees, gasping for air. 

“Dani—”

“He’s gone,” she says, standing up. Blood is still dripping from her nose, down her chin and neck, and her eyes are wide and dazed. “I tried—I—”

She staggers, and JT grabs her arms. It worries him to hear her sound so dazed, to act so weak. She's never one to show her pain, and he wonders if there's something else, a concussion, a blow to the head. “Whoa, I got you. Hold on. Help's coming.”

“He’s _gone,_ ” she says again. “I let him...he headbutted me, I wasn’t—”

She takes one step forward, and then JT has to lower her to sit in the dirt as her legs give out. “Hey, hey. Relax.”

She wipes her hand under her nose, stares down at the blood covering her skin, and then swears.

"You get hit?" 

"I don't know," she says. "I might have blacked out for a minute. Damn it. He was already gone when I ran out here." She spits a glob of blood out, grimacing, running her tongue over bright red teeth. Thankfully, none look to be missing.

JT stays with her, sitting by her side until police cars and a bus pull up, until medics take her to be checked in the back and he can return to the others while backup scouts the area for the man that got away. 

Malcolm is in Gil’s arms, hiccuping out sobs against Gil’s chest as Gil pets his hair, strokes his back, murmuring to him. And as much as he knows _this_ isn’t Malcolm’s fault, JT finds he’s angry enough about it all to ruin the moment.

“He’s gone. Dani’s hurt.”

Gil’s attention immediately diverts from Malcolm up to JT. "What? How hurt?"

Malcolm snivels. He blinks hard, frowns, and asks, "Dani?" 

"Might have a broken nose. They're looking at her now." 

"God _damn_ it." Gil pulls away, standing up, and Malcolm shrinks in on himself. He looks like he expects Gil to _hit_ him, and JT knows damn well Gil has never done that. 

Gil is more than hurt by it. He breathes shaky, and then says, "Take him back. Please, I have to—"

JT holds up a hand. He doesn't want Gil to say anymore when he doesn't need to. "I've got him." 

"Alright. Bright, please...please. I'm begging you. Go with him. I'll be back with you there." 

Malcolm stares up at JT, his eyes wide, as they're left alone. 

"He got away?" he asks.

He seems just as dazed as Dani. He's seemed half-awake every moment JT has seen him since the hospital. 

Since he saw the video.

That damn _video_. 

Painted just as clearly on the insides of his lids as war is.

"Come on."

Malcolm gets to his feet, and wordlessly follows JT to the car. 

The ride is silent, uncomfortable. Malcolm has his face hidden in his hands again, sniffling quietly, and JT doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he _can_ say. There's nothing that can make this better, only worse.

“It’s alright,” he offers, and Malcolm’s shoulders shake. 

He doesn’t say anything else after that.

**x**

His fault. It's his own damn fault. The killer is gone, and it’s _his fault._

He doesn't remember what happened. He came back to himself crying in Gil's arms, always fucking _crying._

He's angry. He's angry at how goddamn pathetic he is, and how it nearly cost Dani her life. How it could cost _more_ people their lives. If the man kills again, because Malcolm prevented him from being caught—

He clenches his fist. He faces the wall, grabs the doorway, and braces to punch it with all of his strength, to break this hand to match the other.

Instead, he hears one of the officers hiss, "If you just fucking _behaved_ , everything would have been fine!" 

_'Funny,'_ John says. ' _Didn't I tell you the same thing?_ '

His strength leaves him in a whoosh of breath, and Malcolm slumps. He sits down, right where he is, in the middle of the hallway. 

"Hey, no, hey, come on." JT's hands are on him, pulling him up from under his arms, and he flinches, panting as JT leads him into Gil's office and shuts the door. 

"Don't touch—" Malcolm says, and JT holds his hands up.

"I'm not. Bright, I'm _sorry._ I didn't mean to scare you. I just fell. You shouldn't have been there, but I never meant to hurt you."

"I shouldn't be…" Malcolm says, and then shakes his head. "D...Dani?" 

"Getting X-rays. She's gonna be fine. But Christ, kid, you know what almost happened, don't you? She could have died. I told you to stay. I _told_ you. Why didn't you stay?" 

' _Why don't you ever listen?'_

"I'm sorry," Malcolm says. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't want that. I-I don't...I don't know what happened. I'm fine. I've been fine!"

"You're not fine!" JT tells him. “You were—"

He cuts off, mouth hanging open. The sudden fear in his face is something that chills Malcolm to the bone.

“I...was what?” Malcolm asks. 

JT doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even _look_ at Malcolm. 

“What happened to me?” Malcolm whispers, and JT breathes in deep.

“You already know what happened,” he says. 

"The video."

JT flinches. It hurts him to think about. "Yeah." 

"I—it was—he—"

"You need to stay in here," JT interrupts. "They're all pissed. I don't know what he said to you, but it's safer if you're here. At least until Gil's back. Alright?" 

Malcolm nods. He sits down on the couch.

' _Good boy.'_

"Thank you. God, please just... _stay._ " 

Out of the way. Just where they all want him to be, and just where he belongs.

He wants to make sure they never have to deal with him being in their way again.

But he can't. 

He's on the fucking edge, but he can't.

Especially not when he has mistakes to fix first.

**x**

Gil approaches him later, when he's back at his desk, going through his profile, racking his brain for anything valuable and getting nothing. 

"How are you?” 

It's a stupid question. Malcolm gives a stupid answer. "Perfect."

Gil sighs. "Right."

"Did they find him?" 

Gil hesitates, like maybe he's contemplating replying with what Malcolm would already know from the pause is a lie. Instead he gives the truth, a short shake of his head, and Malcolm hisses out his breath.

“Let me take you home, kid.”

“No.”

“You need sleep, Bright, you need—”

Malcolm slams his hand down on the desk, and Gil’s mouth snaps shut. 

“What I _need,_ ” Malcolm grits out after a moment, “is _this_. To keep working until we catch him.”

“Bright...it wasn’t your fault.”

Malcolm laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but God, he’s breaking apart. He doesn’t think he has control over anything he does at all anymore. 

Gil tries to touch his neck, and Malcolm bristles, grunts out an inhuman sound from deep in his throat in warning. Gil backs off, and Malcolm braces himself on the desk, bouncing his leg underneath it.

“Something happened,” he says, when Gil doesn’t speak again. “Something happened to me, and you know what it was, and you aren’t telling me.”

He turns to catch Gil’s reaction, and he finds Gil looks absolutely stricken. Gil shifts uncomfortably, shakes his head, reaches up to tug at his collar and looks away, exhibits more stress reactions than Malcolm’s ever seen him give before.

“What—” Gil chokes out. “What’s this about?”

Malcolm doesn’t bring up JT. He doesn’t bring up _any_ of it. 

He just says, “What happened?”

Gil fists at his jacket, blinking hard a few times. Malcolm takes a breath, whimpers it out, and asks, “Did John—”

“I should have never let you on this case,” Gil interrupts. “I knew it. That was my mistake. You’re not ready.”

“You’re diverting,” Malcolm says. “You keep—that’s all you _all_ keep doing, I—”

Gil holds his hand out. “Go home.”

“No, wait,” Malcolm pleads, standing up, swaying from dizziness that comes over him from the lack of everything he’s been denying himself. “Gil, please don’t—”

“Go home _now,_ Bright. Don’t make me have you escorted.” And with that, he’s turning around, and Malcolm wants to fall to his knees and cry, wants to rip out his hair and _scream._

No.

No, that’s not what he wants to do at all.

He watches Gil walk away, walk away from him still lying, still a goddamn _liar,_ shutting himself into the office. 

He should know better than to think Malcolm is going to listen to him.

Malcolm glances around the mostly empty precinct, takes in every person still here and watches them. When he’s sure no one is watching _him_ , he stands, and slowly makes his way down the hall.

He sticks the spare key he stole from Gil's office earlier that night into the evidence room’s door, opens it, and closes himself inside. Takes a long, deep breath before turning around, faced with more than he knows what to do with.

He’s being selfish. _This_ is being selfish. He shouldn’t be thinking about himself, his own trauma, when there’s a killer out there.

But he can’t think of anything else. This will help, won’t it? This will be the end of it. He’ll know. He’ll finally know what the _fuck_ they’re hiding from him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, because somewhere deep he already knows.

It takes a while. Eventually he slips his way out and into the conference room, drawing the blinds and keeping the lights off, closing himself inside.

Malcolm stares at the card in his hand for a long, long time. His vision blurs with tears, and then clears with a few blinks, and then clouds again.

‘ _Do it.’_

He shouldn’t. 

_‘Do it.’_

He _can’t._

John takes his chin in a hand, squeezing his cheeks.

_‘My beloved,’_ he says. _‘You wanted to know. So find out.’_

Malcolm shakes him off, pushes him away. He gasps for air, doesn’t know the last time he took a breath. He pushes the card into the reader, turns on the television, and sits back into one of the chairs.

He rolls the remote in his trembling hand, illuminated only by the eerie blue light of the screen.

His finger fixes over the button. John’s hands settle onto his shoulders.

He exhales slow, swallows hard—

And presses play.


	28. Pieces Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only excuse for my absence is...2020. Like...do I need to say more. Big oof.
> 
> Thank you guys for giving me comments and asks over the past while to keep pushing me in the right direction, I appreciate it SO much. This was a really difficult chapter but I am finally, finally satisfied! I really hope you enjoy! I love you all and hope you're healthy and good!
> 
>  **TW!!!!!!!** The main subject matter of this chapter is what John did to Malcolm in 16 and the video he took of it, and the complete breakdown seeing it leads Malcolm to have. And I can’t even convince _myself_ that I wasn’t on, like, _LSD_ writing the first like ~6k so...the trippy-ness is worth a warning all in itself. There’s _intense suicidal thoughts throughout_ starting especially after Gil’s part, and a very failed suicide attempt. If you’d like to know exactly what happens in the chapter before you decide to read, I’ll put a description of the chapter in the bottom notes! If you don’t want to read at all, that is also okay! Please take care, thank you!

Malcolm feels like he's dreaming.

In the quiet, he can hear his own wheezing. He holds his breath until his chest aches, until he’s certain his lungs are going to burst, but the noise doesn't stop.

It doesn't stop because it's not him. It doesn’t stop because it’s not _here._

Instead, it's coming from the television. It's on the tape...

Just like _he_ is. His body, anyway. Crumpled and motionless in the middle of that cellar, in a stain of red under a filthy blanket, filling the rooms with that awful, raspy sound.

Is he still there? This is proof that he _can't_ be, right?

He doesn’t know. He just _doesn’t._ He’s not sure he can ever really know anything again.

John's hands are still on his shoulders, fingers gripping, nails digging in. It hurts, but it’s nothing compared to what he went through then. The feeling of the switch against his feet, his arms, eventually the rest of him. The wooden axe handle coming down over his back, his knees, his open wound, the pain sending him into darkness.

This is nothing, isn’t it?

Behind him, John hums.

On the tape, John speaks.

“Look at your little boy, Martin. I'm almost sorry it had to come to this.”

Martin. That’s right. The tape was for Martin. Made for the one person who hadn’t yet seen it.

“This was all for you. For God. For him, Martin. For Malcolm. I promise. He'll be in good hands.”

All for him. That’s right. It was nothing more than God’s will. John had said that.

John had said so many, many things…

Now he talks to Martin. Then he steps forward, and he wakes Malcolm up. Pulls his blanket away, cups his face, puts his dirty hands on him and slaps him and _taunts_ him and gets nothing but broken, whimpering compliance in response.

Malcolm is humiliated by his own weakness, his ears burning as John teases from behind. They all _saw_ him just like this, small and feeble and _cowardly_.

But he remembers the pain. He remembers how much of it there was, physical and emotional, overwhelming and crippling, with only so much more to come...but he should have fought more, he should have _done more..._

“...you, little Malcolm…you’re going to kill her.”

No. No, he won’t, he _can’t_ — _John, don’t make me, please—_

“Malcolm _fucking_ Whitly, look at the camera or I’m going to saw her fingers off and shove them _one by one_ down your throat. _Look at it!”_

He sobs, and his mirror image on the screen does the same, at the very same moment. It spins his vision, and he feels more out of control and confused than ever.

Is he—there? Is he still there…? Is he…is...

“There’s my good boy. Perfect! Oh, don’t look so sad. I just want you to say hi!”

Malcolm flinches. He remembers the way John looked at him from behind the camera, the darkness in the eyes he wasn’t allowed to meet. He watches himself see the same thing for the first time, and he watches himself start to cry.

“Oh, no. Don’t cover your pretty face. You look good on camera, little Malcolm. A natural.”

The camera zooms in on his face, and Malcolm tastes bile on his tongue, feels his lungs aching for air he doesn’t have the ability to take in right now.

“Beautiful. Oh, wow.”

Looking into his own eyes, he's just as terrified. They're filled with tears, and so are his. He’s never seen someone look so afraid...

“What will your friends think of you like this?”

_They saw. They saw._ What had they been thinking, looking into his pitiful, broken little face?

Malcolm’s hand shakes around the remote, and he hears the chains rattling on the video. One and the same, one and the same...the same...no difference...he's there, or...or he's here, he doesn't…

He wants to pause it— _please make it stop._ He needs to breathe— _please let me breathe—John, please!_

But he can’t. He can’t move. He can't do anything but let it play.

“I like you just like this. Too much, you know that? You're a little _too_ pretty. Gonna be a problem, looking at you all the time. It already is. Just wanna…"

And play.

“We're His saviors, little Malcolm. His favorites. Don't you see? Can't you feel it?”

_And play._

“Even when I come to hurt you, you look...relieved to see me, almost. You don't like being alone, do you? Well, you'll never have to be again. _I'm_ here now.”

_‘And I have been since, just like I promised.’_

He sees the moment he decided his only option was to end his life. He sees the way his hand shakes as he picks up the saw, as he realizes he _can’t_ and then drops it again to sob. The way he curls into himself, helpless. The way John smothers him while he monologues, and John’s hand comes over his mouth now to match it.

And then…

“You’re _sorry_. Not sorry yet. Not really."

_No._

“You _forget_ , little Malcolm.”

_No, no, no._

“I _know_ how to make you sorry.”

_God, please...please no..._

“I know what’ll snap you in _two.”_

A scream bubbles in the back of his throat, trying to escape, but he can’t make a sound now. He’s only able to listen to the ones he made _then_ as he watches the very moment John’s touch dirtied him beyond what anything will ever be able to clean away again.

“Oh, my Malcolm…”

And he _feels_ it. He feels his body reacting with horror and shame and disgust as if it’s happening again. John’s phantom hands feel just as real as they did, as they slide down his body to settle where they are on the screen, where— _God,_ where they _never_ should have been.

“Do you _want_ me to? Is that it? You’ve been _teasing_ me, all this time…”

Teasing...he’d been _teasing_...but how? What had he done to make John say that? Moved the wrong way while being tortured and mutilated? Made the wrong noise between screams of agony? Or had John meant _before,_ when he’d been stalking him? Had Malcolm led him on with nothing more than the sway of his hips as he walked, just like the ones who'd hurt him in college said? He'd never had to do or say a thing, he'd just _existed,_ cursed with a mouth and a body he'd never asked for that got him hurt so many times...sickening—he's _disgusting—_ and he'd been _stupid_ enough to think he could outsmart someone who'd been a mile ahead of him his whole life.

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to keep them closed forever. But the moment he hears himself crying out for help—help that won't be there in time because _Gil's not coming_ —he has to look again, he _has to,_ there’s no choice, there’s _no choice._

_‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’_

_Isn’t it?_

When he’d followed John without calling for backup? When he’d put his life in John’s hands and somehow been surprised when John did as he pleased with it? This is what he’d wanted. This is what he’d _asked_ for, what he’d _begged_ for. John had done nothing but give him exactly what he deserved.

Offscreen, John bashes his victim—Jasmine Miller, still alive, _barely—_ until she stops making noise. The other him screams, he screams so _loud,_ and then is beaten into the floor, has John’s dirty, bloody hand shoved into his mouth.

And then bites down. _Smiles._ Looks like an animal, a monster— _the monster's son_ —with red teeth bared, and then is— _rightfully, justly_ —beaten again.

John’s hands wrap around the neck of the other him on the screen, right where bruises had been visible for weeks. He feels that cold grasp here, now, and his breath cuts off.

He wants to turn away.

He _can't._

John chokes him until he stops making terrible, desperate sounds.

Until he stops moving.

Stops _living._

Malcolm is gone on the screen, but here in the chair.

_Isn't he?_

He's never felt more disconnected, above his body instead of inside it, floating dazed and weak and unable to return.

Seconds pass. A few more.

He hadn't known he'd been gone so _long._

He watches John realize his mistake.

He watches John save his life.

Two serial killers, with so many prior victims, had chosen Malcolm to live. Had deemed Malcolm better, more worthy, than the rest.

He doesn't understand _why._

On screen, the other him gasps for air, dragging it into an abused throat. In the chair, the him he doesn't know is him at all gasps, too.

In unison, they breathe. John's voice on the screen, in his ear from behind, tells him how sorry he is. How beautiful he is. Calls him a miracle. _John's_ miracle.

The other him doesn't move again. John holds him for a long, long time, and then finally lays him down, smoothing back his hair.

"My Malcolm," he says. The John touching him now says it at the same time.

Malcolm is scared. He's scared for the other man on the screen, and for himself.

They aren't the same. Not anymore. They can't be. Things stopped after John brought him back— _saved his life,_ he was dead, God, he was _dead—_ and started again when he woke alone. There was nothing between. He would know if there was. He would _know._

John calls the man beautiful. He touches him. Unbuttons his shirt. Hands curl around his own shoulders, around his neck, and squeeze.

“I saved your life. Don’t I deserve a reward for that?”

He touches differently. He touches where he shouldn’t. He leans down and kisses the man like a lover instead of a prisoner.

“Look at you and that pretty mouth. So soft. So...empty.”

More touching. Shifting around.

That man is better off unconscious.

“Should I fix that? Hmm?”

John turns back to look at the camera, and Malcolm jerks back in fear. John is looking at _him._

“Oh, I think I should.”

John turns the man on the ground a bit, lays him sideways, in perfect view. He puts a knee on either side of the man's body, and settles onto his chest.

Malcolm wants to close his eyes, but they stay open. He has no control over anything. He doesn't think he ever has.

The man lets out a whimper. John strokes down the man’s face, back up his neck, slipping a thumb between his lips.

“Are you awake?” John asks, and the man’s fingers twitch in those chains.

He must be so cold...so uncomfortable...

“Oh, you poor thing. So sleepy, aren’t you? That’s alright. You rest now, little Malcolm.”

More touching. So much touching. _Too much._

That poor man...he needs help. Malcolm wishes he could provide it.

“When we consummate our love," John says, "you'll be conscious. You'll feel everything. You'll feel _wonderful._ But this right here...this is _my_ reward. For _me_. I saved you. Now I'm taking what I'm owed."

"No," Malcolm whispers. The man on the screen makes another sound, but he doesn't move, doesn’t open his eyes.

John, behind him, whispers, _"Yes."_

The tape rolls on.

And Malcolm feels like he's dreaming.

"That's it. So good for your savior…"

Malcolm _is_ dreaming. He has to be. That didn’t happen, that _never happened—_

"Oh, M-Mart—Malcolm…"

No, he's not dreaming, he's having a _nightmare_ , and he can't wake up—

"You were made for this. Made for me."

_Wake up—_

"My beloved...oh, _my_ _Malcolm—_ "

_My God, please, wake up!_

But he doesn't. He stays terribly still, and terribly trapped, until the tape finally ends.

He can't remember how to breathe. There’s no air in the room, anyway.

_Wake up._

_Please. Please._

_Please..._

He doesn’t feel his finger move to play it again—doesn't feel any part of his body at _all_ —

But he doesn’t stop it, either.

He just stares.

He watches.

Again.

“Look at your little boy, Martin. I'm almost sorry it had to come to this..."

**x**

Blowing his nose into another tissue, Gil is surprised to find he somehow still has tears left to fall. He’s been crying for so damn long, and he just doesn't know what to _do_ anymore.

He needs to tell Malcolm.

He _can't tell_ Malcolm.

His boy. The light of his life. His _poor Bright._

Malcolm is already never going to be the same, but…Christ, when he knows...he's had suspicions, Gil's sure, but when he _knows_ …

And Gil is never going to be the same, either. Not after seeing... _that._ Not after seeing John Watkins do _that_ to his son, all because _Gil_ couldn't find him quicker.

And it scares him. He wants, more than anything, for things to just _go back_ to before this, because it isn't _fair._ Not for any of them, but especially not for Malcolm. A life of trauma after trauma, with no time to recover in between? How can anyone live like that?

Gil knows what he did, and he knows if anyone deserves this, it's him. He knows he brought Martin back into Malcolm’s life—sent Malcolm back into the monster’s grasp—and he’s never regretted anything more. If he could take it back, do it over, he would. He would keep Malcolm as far away from this all as he possibly could. He would protect his boy, like he should have been doing from the start.

And maybe Malcolm would have found his way back to Martin on his own. Living back in New York, it was probably inevitable.

But it wasn’t Malcolm’s choice, how it happened. It was Gil’s. Gil’s _fault._ While Malcolm clings to him for comfort, Gil is the reason he needs it in the first place, that John ever got ahold of him.

He won’t forgive himself for that. He won't forgive himself for any of this. Malcolm shouldn’t, either. Malcolm doesn’t even seem to _think_ about it, that he was— _hurt,_ and it all started with _Gil._

Hurt more than he knows. Hurt more than Gil thinks he can put into words.

But he has to. This has gone on long enough. Malcolm deserves to know, and it coming from Gil, he hopes, is easiest.

He digs the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, taking a deep breath. When he finally opens the office door again, keyed up on a temporary rush of courage, Malcolm is gone, and Gil deflates with a heavy sigh. It’s not relief, he feels; not really. Maybe relief that he doesn’t have to face this for another night, but he knows damn well Malcolm isn’t doing any better at home.

He sends Malcolm a text apologizing, and then a second to let him know they need to talk. A third expressing his love, just to be sure Malcolm knows.

It just isn’t _fair_ to his boy. None of this is.

He waits for a response, and when he gets none, he reluctantly turns back to the casework.

He’s going for his second cup of coffee when he hears something. A muffled sound, coming from the hall. No...from the conference room. From under the door that, usually, is not shut, just the barest amount of light visible from behind blinds that, usually, are not closed.

There’s a moment where he nearly goes past. He doesn’t think anything of it. It means _nothing_ to him.

But then, he’s curious. He wonders. Was Dani or JT looking over the caseboard again? Had they found something to add? It seems a bit off that they wouldn’t tell him, but he knows it’s late, and he knows the lot of them need sleep if they're going to find their suspect.

He grasps the doorknob, pushes the door open.

He finds Malcolm, sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead, unblinking, looking ghostly in the light of the television.

And playing on the screen, right in front of him, is the one thing Gil would have done anything in the entire world, would have given his _life,_ to prevent Malcolm from seeing.

The sound—the sound that fucking _haunts_ him, Malcolm’s whimpering, his choking—his _dying—_ and then—please, _no, no—_

_Useless, worthless man—you couldn’t save him, you left him there to_ die—

He can't move for a moment, can't _breathe,_ overwhelmed with guilt and horror that leaves his body rigid and frozen, caught between one step and another. And then, all at once, he’s choking out, " _Malcolm—_ " and lunging forward, nearly knocking the television over as he yanks for the cord to shut it off.

"B-Bright, _Bright_ —you—"

"You lied."

Gil backs up. He hits the wall and feels himself _tremble_ as Malcolm looks up at him. There's tear tracks down his face, but they're dried. His eyes are completely emotionless. He just... _looks_ at Gil.

And Gil can't bring himself to look back. He averts his gaze down to the floor and shakes his head, trying to find _something_ he can say, _anything_. "Bright...I...I..."

"It's okay," Malcolm says. He stands up, and seems unusually steady. Far more than Gil thinks he should be. It's _unnerving_.

"You don't have to say anything. You didn't before, so...why would you start now?"

" _Bright—_ " he chokes, and still can't form the words to continue.

Malcolm smiles at him. It doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

"I'm going home, now," he says, as if it's just another day at work. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And then he leaves, and he doesn't look back. He doesn't stop, even when Gil calls his name. And by the time Gil finally manages to get his legs to work, Malcolm has left the precinct entirely.

Dani is suddenly beside him, grasping at his shoulder to get his attention. "Gil. Hey, Gil! What's wrong? You look freaked."

"He saw," Gil says, and her fingers grip down into his jacket, nails digging in.

“Saw...what?”

“The—the _tape_. He saw—”

"No," she says. She shakily inhales, and repeats it. " _No._ He—I just saw him, he seemed—he seemed _fine_ , he—he smiled at me, he said _goodnight—_ "

"He saw," Gil repeats, and turns to her. "He—"

He stops, looking over her shoulder. She follows his gaze, and it lands on Malcolm's coat, still hung over the back of the chair where he'd sat earlier.

"He forgot it," Dani says, and Gil swallows.

"We need to find him. We—we need to find him _now._ ”

He doesn't think Malcolm forgot it.

He thinks Malcolm _left_ it, and he thinks Malcolm isn't planning on coming back at all.

**x**

The lights hurt Malcolm's eyes.

He's not sure when he started walking, or how long he's been doing so. He only comes back to himself, realizes he ever left the precinct at _all,_ when he bumps shoulders with someone, staggering against a wall. They tell him to watch where he’s going, swear at him under their breath as they storm off, and while he’s regaining his balance, someone else hesitates by his side.

"You okay, kid?"

He's not. He is.

"Sure," he says, and keeps going. There’s nothing else to do.

John keeps his hand pressed between Malcolm's shoulder blades, leading him on. Malcolm doesn't know if other people can see him, or if he’s really seeing them, if they or him are _real,_ because Malcolm doesn't know _anything_ anymore.

His memory lapses, or maybe time itself does. He blinks, and he's holding a bottle of liquor in a paper bag that he doesn't recall buying. He's down a street he doesn't recognize, looking at a part of town he's never been. Shadows stretch over cracked, uneven sidewalks. Sirens blare, echoing, in the distance.

He's not afraid, though. He doesn't feel anything at all.

He’s so...so—

_So...empty._

_Should I fix that? Hmm?_

He drinks, and he walks. His phone rings in his pocket. He doesn’t have the strength to reach for it, let alone answer, and he doesn’t care.

_‘It’s nothing, I’m sure,_ ’ John tells him. _‘Who would be calling you now?’_

“Gil,” Malcolm says, and John hums out a sigh.

_‘Ah, yes. I’m sure he’ll have so much to say, unlike he did before. Why didn’t he_ tell you, _my beloved? Why didn’t he let you know what he saw?’_

Malcolm doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have an answer.

Had Gil planned on never telling him at all? Keeping what he knew in secrecy? Or would he have finally given up the information sometime in the far future when Malcolm was better at pretending things were fine, and made him break down all over again because John had—

He had—

_No._

_God, no. No, no, no._

He hits the wall on a dark street corner, slides down to sit, and covers his face. One sob escapes, then another, and then he takes a long drink, choking it down. His stomach hurts. Where John touched him hurts. Fucking _everything_ hurts.

His throat. His mouth. He remembers how sore it'd been when he woke up, afterwards—after he’d been _killed_ and brought back—but he'd thought it had been solely because it’d been scratched raw by John’s bloody nails, and—and—and not because—not from—

He’s—

_Dirty._ His entire body is dirty, dirty, _dirty._

And they’d seen.

They’d seen so much more than they _ever_ should have, so much more than Malcolm had ever known there was to see.

He wishes he didn’t know. He wishes—

_‘But that’s not really what you want,_ is it?” John asks, crouching beside him, grasping his chin and lifting it up. Malcolm can hardly keep his eyes open, but John looks more real than ever before through the blur.

“I...I don’t know,” he admits.

‘ _They kept the truth from you,’_ John tells him, petting his hair in a mockery of comfort, “but I’ve _given it to you_. Given you a gift _yet again. I’m so good to you,_ my little Malcolm, _aren’t I? And you treat me so terribly.’_

Malcolm turns away from him. “You don’t...you...you _hurt_ me...you...you...oh, my God— _fuck_ , my _God_ —you _ra—_ ”

Fingers press against his lips, stopping the word from coming out. He's almost grateful.

“I took what I was owed _. Oh, I_ _could_ have given you so much more, _my beloved.’_ He leans, pressing a kiss to Malcolm’s cheek, and Malcolm flinches back. John tries again, and Malcolm pulls himself up and to his feet.

He stumbles forward, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. John walks beside him, whistling some tune, one he’s heard before.

It takes him back to the cellar, John sitting beside him, ready to beat him when he couldn’t listen, couldn’t recite the quote John had just read aloud to him because he _couldn't_ _remember_ that John had spoken in the first place.

_Angels..._ something about angels…falling...he feels like he's falling, he's falling...

_‘Find_ somewhere to pray, _little Malcolm. Somewhere_ high up, close _to God._ I’ll pray with you. For your forgiveness, for your peace.”

No. He won’t find peace, and he doesn’t want forgiveness. He wants...he wants to…

_‘Leave me?’_

He hangs his head, letting out a sob. “Yes. _Please_. I need you to go.”

“I’ll stay longer than any of the rest of them. _I promise you that, my beloved.’_

“No,” Malcolm says. “No. I’ll make you go.”

John grabs a fistful of his hair. _'I’d like_ to see you try.”

Malcolm scoffs. John doesn’t think he can? That he _won’t?_ That he isn’t strong enough?

Of course he does. They all think that. Gil, Dani, JT. They’d been lying to him all this time about what had happened, and he knows now that they were lying about their care for him, too. They don’t still love him. They never loved him at all. His family doesn’t love him. _Gil_ doesn’t love him.

_Gil...Gil, help...please...help me...no, no, no—_

No. Liars. _Liars_. Fucking liars. Every single one of them.

_‘And what does that_ make you, little Malcolm? Do you think yourself a saint?"

“No,” he mumbles. "I'm...I'm a…"

_Filthy sinner._

_Filthy little whore._

“Not as bad _as you_ once were. If only you’d let _me bring_ you to God...He _could have changed that. I could have_ changed that, changed you.”

Malcolm laughs. A car horn honks, somewhere far in the distance, and someone shouts, but he pays it all no attention. “You did. _Fuck_ you, you did.”

He presses a hand to his chest, to John’s mark, and squeezes his eyes shut, clinging to the nearest thing he can find. “This was _you._ Everything. All of this. All of...all…”

‘ _Oh, don’t cry,_ my beloved. It’s just _a reminder of_ what could have been.”

He doesn’t want it. Please, please, _please…_ please make it go away. He just wants it to _go away._ The memories, the sounds, the fear—

He just wants it all to _stop._

He finds himself climbing stairs, the bottle nearly empty now, and pushes open a door, stumbling out and onto an empty lot. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got here, and it really, _really_ doesn't matter.

It’s high. That’s what John wants, isn’t it? Somewhere high.

Somewhere close to God, when he’s never felt further.

“I saved your life. Don’t I deserve a reward for that?”

‘ _Don’t I?_

Don’t I?”

He climbs up over a barrier, slumps against the taller one beside it, and sighs. He’s dizzy, even before he opens his eyes, staring down at the traffic light far, far below as it flickers from yellow to red.

Red…so red...so much blood. So much blood on his hands. His own, _theirs..._ so much. For twenty years he’s been sinking deeper into it, _drowning_ in it, and he can’t hold his breath any longer. When he gasps, he feels it weighing heavy in his lungs, filling them, and it _hurts._ It’s hurt for so damn long. Too long. Everything just _hurts._

Hurts more now than it did.

_‘Look at you_

and that pretty mouth. So soft. So...empty.”

He flinches, gripping at the concrete beneath his shaking fingers.

He knows what he saw. He knows what he heard, the things John had said to—to that man. That poor man.

That wasn’t him, right? That was someone else, wasn’t it?

“So good for your savior…"

There’s—something wrong, he feels something—something

_wrong. Wrong, wrong,_

no. No, no, no. That was someone else. Not him. Couldn't be. He'd know if it was him. He'd know. He’d

no. No, no, no...

_'Ssh, little Malcolm.'_

_'Ssh, my boy. We’re going home, okay?_ Just relax. _Just relax. I’m so_ proud of _you._ Re _memb_ er th _a_ t, my _boy._ Okay?”

“Oh, God…" He grabs at his head, feels like it's _exploding—_ "Just leave me—"

_'Alone? Never. You’re my son. Mine_. You’re mine.”

His phone rings again in his pocket, startling him back to something resembling reality. He blinks hard, letting it go on, taking another drink instead of answering. It masks the taste of his sorrow, but never for long enough. He fixes that by drinking more, until the bottle is finished.

Then it overtakes him, and he has nothing left to stop it.

His phone rings again. And again.

He takes it out of his pocket, and though the screen swirls he can make out the words _missed calls_. The number fails to register.

“Twenty-four,” a voice beside his ear supplies, and Malcolm jerks away, hits the ground on his ass and hears the bottle smash to pieces beside him.

“You—” he says, or at least he thinks he does. His lips are numb. His whole body is numb. That's how he's always felt in the cellar, though; he shouldn't be surprised.

The man crouches beside him, and Malcolm can’t look in their eyes. They look too much like his own.

But they’re not his, because they

can’t be, right?” they ask, and Malcolm touches his mouth. The other man does the same.

“Stop,” Malcolm tells them. “Stop. I want

_it to stop, don’t we?_

Two voices, or—or maybe one. Maybe none at all. In his head, in his ears, he just doesn't know. But he nods, or maybe he watches the other man do so. Their lips are bruised, red. There’s something wrong. He feels so _bad_ for them.

“It was just nineteen days,” they say. “Wasn’t it?”

“Wasn’t it?” Malcolm echoes, and then covers his face. “He did...he did something

_bad bad bad badbadbadbadbadbad_

to us, didn’t he?” they ask.

“N-no. _No._ Not me.” Malcolm shakes his head and picks himself up off the ground, stepping around them and over to the edge again. It’s beautiful up here...but too cold, too cold, _too cold..._ “No...not…”

“Not you?”

_No. Not me. You._ Someone else…"

"Well. They look _quite_ alike, don't we?"

"St-stop. My head hurts," Malcolm says, and he rests it down against the concrete. It hurts so much. Everything hurts. Everything always _hurts_.

“My mouth, too,” the other man says, and it makes him flinch. “Can’t think of why."

_I saw why._

"We lived why."

Malcolm rubs at his temples. The chains are tight around his aching, bloody wrists. They’re so painful, so _loud_ against the floor. They’re what’s trapping him here forever, keeping him from going home, to his bed, to his Sunshine. He will _never_ be free. Not ever. “I’m tired. _I’m so tired, please, please, please..._

“And I’m not?”

“No. _I_ am. I mean—you— _you_ can be…”

“We can?”

“I—I don’t know, I…” Tears tickle down his cheeks, drip onto his hands. John rubs at his back, pets his hair, so gentle, so frighteningly gentle, stop, _stop...no more._

“Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah. We can. B-bad...bad things happened. And I...I can’t...I _can’t…_ ”

_I know. How nice would it feel to just...go to sleep, instead?_

Muscles untense, just a bit, at the thought. "...Forever?"

"Well…" They look down. "You can make it forever, if you want.”

That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

Yes...yes. That’s what they want.

His phone rings again, again, _again,_ and he finally pushes it off the ledge. Watches it smash on the concrete below and is comforted by the finality.

“Climb up.”

_Climb up._

But he can’t. He doesn’t have the strength. He barely has the ability to stay standing, gripping onto the side with white knuckles as he keeps looking down, down, down.

Falling, falling…

“This is nothing like the end we imagined, is it?”

_No...but nothing is. Why_

were we born to hurt?" The man scoffs, but the sound holds no humor. They're in just as much pain as him. More. "Ask your father. Or John. Either of the killers that saved us when we’re worth _nothing.”_

“Why did they…?”

_Well...you can’t ask John anymore, can you?_

“I killed him,” Malcolm whispers. “I killed him.”

_And he deserved it. For what he did to me. You_ did the right thing.”

“No. No...no...I’m...I’m not him. I’m not…”

“You’re your father’s son. _You’ve never been anything more._

His head hurts. It hurts _so much._ There’s too many thoughts, too many voices. He’s never heard them so _loud,_ never felt quite so much like he’s caught in a terror when he’s still awake.

_Unless you’re not. Still with him. Still there. Wake up, little Malcolm. Face him. Face your savior._

A hand slides across his back, and he screams, in fear and anger and _despair._

“It’s okay,” John says, ghosting his lips across Malcolm’s temple, down to his jaw. “My beloved. All okay.”

“It will be,” the man from the cellar says. “You know what you need to do, don’t you?”

Malcolm looks down, and then turns around, pressing himself back with his eyes squeezed shut, gasping for air.

_Scared. I’m too scared, I can’t—_

Hands cup his face, and Malcolm sobs. He knows who it is before he hears them speak those horrible words he’s never been able to escape from.

“My boy.”

Malcolm can’t even pretend the touch doesn’t comfort him, as dangerous and disgusting as it is. He hurts...he hurts so much, and there’s no one else here, no one to tell him not to.

So he cries, and he whimpers, “ _Dad…_ ”

Martin smiles. There’s too much love in his eyes, too much pride, and Malcolm feels ten again.

“Oh, Malcolm,” he murmurs. “What on earth is wrong with you now?”

Malcolm nearly crumples, holding himself on his feet only because he can’t stand ending the contact. It doesn’t matter, does it? Another liar, another person who’s hurt him. There’s so many, now. So many…they're all he has left...

“D-Dad…" He remembers how cold he was in the forest, watching John point his gun with the intent to end Martin's life. He remembers the moment he knew there was no other choice but to stop John at any cost.

He hadn't even known what John had done. If he'd known...if he'd known what that poor man had had to go through...maybe he would have driven the knife a little deeper. Maybe it wouldn't have left him so broken.

"Oh, my son," Martin chuckles. "You wouldn't be any different. You'd still be in pieces. And do I ever mean _pieces…_ look at you…do you even know who you are right now?"

“No,” he says, and chokes on his tears. _"_ Dad... _Daddy._..I'm s- _sorry…_ "

"My _boy._ Whatever for? You did so well. You saved me. After everything you put your old man through…I'd say that was a step in the direction of forgiveness."

Forgiveness…

Is that...is that what he wants? Is that not what he’s _always_ wanted?

“Of course it is. You miss me, Malcolm. You love me. I know you do. _You_ know. Always pretending you’re so strong when all you want is my arms around you. Isn't that right? I would so happily give it to you...you know I would.”

Malcolm's legs finally give way. He hits his knees, feels glass digging into one of them, but the pain means nothing, and he welcomes it. “Dad…”

"My _boy..._ you fractured little thing. What do you want from me?”

He wants...

He just…

He just wants a _hug_. He's never wanted anything more than to be _held_ , than to be given attention and affection and _love._

And along with everything else, John took that from him. He made it something disgusting. He'd turned every touch into a horrible reminder of his perversion, left it to bring up memories Malcolm just wants to _forget_ and never will. He'd _ruined him._

There's no one to hold him, now. There's no one left. His last lifeline, his last prayer, had turned out to be no better, hadn't he? The only person who could ever save him...just another liar.

“I...I _hurt_ ," he whispers. "I hurt so much...everything hurts. Please…"

Martin pets his hair. It makes him flinch, it makes him _fearful,_ it makes him sad and hurt and nostalgically desperate all at once.

"I know. But you’ve done so _good_ , my boy. So good for me. You've made me so proud."

He finally moves away, because he never, ever wanted to hear that. He never wanted to _do_ that. Things never should have been like _this._

“God’s plan,” John tells him. He pulls Malcolm back up to his feet, roughly pushes him until he's doubled over the barrier again. “All His plan. This was always meant to be. Didn't I tell you? Everything for a reason. It was always meant to end...just like this.”

“Like this?” Malcolm asks, looking down, and John hums. Nuzzles into Malcolm’s neck like he had at the cabin talking about their future together.

For once, Malcolm doesn’t fight it. He figures it won’t matter in a moment, anyways.

“Imagine the peace,” the man who looks so much like him says. They run their fingers through Malcolm’s hair, and Malcolm leans into that. Their touch feels different than John’s, than his father’s. It feels...familiar. Safe, even.

The voice becomes but a whisper, ghosting over his ear.

_“Give us peace, Malcolm."_

He grips at the edge.

Really, it’s going to be the easiest thing he’s ever done.

“You’ll never be like him again,” the man says, grasping the fingers of his casted hand. It makes him feel just a little bit less alone. “No more pain. Never again.”

He closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply.

_Never again._

After everything, nothing in the world could sound better.

**x**

Gil is mumbling under his breath again.

Though he’s been doing it for most of the drive, Dani still can't quite make out what he's saying. She strains her ears to hear over the rumble of the engine, and then jumps when he curses and shouts for tech to get the GPS location pinpointed faster.

“ _Sorry,”_ he whispers, and she shakes her head. She could never hold it against him, not when she knows exactly the stress he’s going through.

“We're trying, boss,” comes JT’s voice over the speaker, and Gil gives a frustrated grunt. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, gripping onto it as if it’s the _only_ thing keeping him grounded, and Dani bites her nail.

It's too much like that night. _Again._ Again and again, they’ve gone through this _too many times._

And yet, as much as she wants to wonder how Bright could ever do this to them, she can’t blame him, either. The things on that video...the sounds _alone._ She’d never seen the rest, never _will,_ but she knows. She’d seen more than enough.

She’ll never forget the way Gil looked when he came out of that room, after. The lack of color in his face, the way he hadn't even _glanced_ at her as he passed with a stumbling gait.

JT didn't look much better. He looked a bit like he was holding back tears.

She had seen him cry, just once. A case had triggered him into the closest thing to a breakdown he'd ever shown before or since, and she'd seen some of the lasting effects that the horrors of war had had on him.

He’d looked like _that_ again. He’d looked like he'd seen something he would never forget, something he would do anything to.

She hadn't wanted to ask, but she needed to.

"It was bad," was all JT could say, over the distant, yet too clear sounds of Gil retching in the bathroom down the hall.

And really, that was the only answer that she needed.

Malcolm should never have had to see it. They’d found the key he’d stolen from Gil’s desk, and JT had sworn, cursed himself for ever letting him stay in there alone. But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t _Malcolm’s_ fault. He couldn’t be faulted for wanting to know what had happened to his own body, when they had failed to tell him, from fear and from foolishly believing that maybe the absence of information altogether was better than the reality.

They’d never planned on keeping it from him forever. Dani never could have. JT had mentioned it was giving nightmares. Gil never seemed to sleep much at all anymore. Maybe they’d hoped to find it all hadn’t broken Malcolm down as much as they know now. Maybe they’d been hoping for a turn of events, for Malcolm to build up enough that this didn't knock him completely back down.

Maybe they'd just been hoping it would go away.

_"Please."_

Dani looks over to Gil, but he's not talking to her. He hasn't been, hasn't even been talking to himself, she realizes.

He's praying. To whatever God he believes in, he’s begging for Malcolm's safety.

"Please, please, please."

"We'll find him," she dares to offer, knowing she can't be sure. “He’s okay. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do anything—"

“He would,” Gil says. Dani grasps at the handle on the door as adrenaline courses through her, cold and hot at the same time.

On the phone there’s static from movement, and then finally, _finally_ they give him an exact location, off a street in a neighborhood that no one should be in this late at night, somewhere Malcolm would never think to go.

“What is he _doing?_ ” Dani asks, looking at the map on Gil’s phone where the pin is dropped, and Gil shakes his head.

“Nothing good. Damn it…damn it all."

It should take ten minutes to get there, but it takes Gil five. He slows down once they turn the corner, rolls down the windows, and desperately scans the street.

“I don’t...I don’t see him,” she whispers.

“The phone’s off. This is the last ping, so he has to—he has to be here, I can’t—”

“Just—just stop the car. We’ll find him, Gil. Just…”

He breaks just a little too hard, grimacing as the belt locks, wrestling with it as he gets the door open until he can stagger out and shout, “Bright!”

A few people walking turn to glance back at him, giving him a dirty look or two but paying him no real mind, even as he steps up onto the sidewalk and they have to go around him. “ _Bright!_ ”

“Gil,” Dani says, and points.

At her feet is the nearly unrecognizably smashed remains of a phone. One she can’t even be sure is Bright’s until Gil picks it up, shakes his head, and looks around with renewed fervor.

“No,” he says, and he sounds broken. “Not again. _Please_ not again.”

Dani doesn’t understand. Why here? Why somewhere so dangerous? Where had he been trying to go? Had someone—

No. No, that _can’t_ be what happened. There has to be something they’re missing. Something, fucking _anything._

She takes the phone from Gil as he brings out his own and starts to jog down the street, calling out to people outside the nearest shop, pulling out his phone and then showing them the screen. She hears him asking if they’ve seen him, desperately, and tries to remember if she has any pictures of Bright to do the same.

This can’t be happening again. This _can’t be happening again._

"—crazy fucker," she hears one of them say. "Walkin' right out in the street like he was tryin' to get hit!"

"This man?"

"...Maybe? It's pitch dark if you ain't noticed. I didn't see where he went. I don't make a habit of keeping tabs on random drunks."

"That's my _kid,_ so you better _think harder!_ "

Her thumb catches on some of the glass of the screen, beyond destroyed. Some of the pieces of it are missing, the backing and the battery, and though she looks around, she can’t find where they’ve landed.

Dropping it didn’t cause this. If Bright had been snatched off the street and let it go from his height, or even if an abductor had _thrown_ it with the intent to render it useless, it still wouldn’t look like _this._

It’s almost like...

She takes a few steps back, feet balancing on the curb of the sidewalk as she looks up, and then, hoarsely, she shouts out for Gil.

He rushes to her side, a question halfway out of his mouth before he follows her gaze.

"The phone—it looks like it _fell_ , Gil, from—what if—"

“No,” Gil murmurs. To Dani, it sounds less like he’s replying to her, and more like he’s remembering exactly what makes him suddenly take off running.

"Dani—call a bus, _now!"_ he shouts over his shoulder, and Dani fumbles in her haste to get her own phone out of her pocket.

_He would._ She hopes that doesn’t mean—but it _does,_ Gil would know better than anyone if—

She stops thinking, just _acts._ She calls for help, as much help as can be spared because something is _wrong._

And though she isn’t sure what she believes anymore, she’s whispering a prayer, too, as she rushes off after Gil.

**x**

Gil feels like he can’t run fast enough. He _can’t._ He should have been running after Malcolm at the precinct instead of freezing like an _idiot,_ should never have let him out of his sight in the first place, should have _driven to Watkins’s faster,_ should have _brutalized Martin_ until he gave up Malcolm’s whereabouts whether it cost him everything or not. He wouldn’t even be _alive_ if it weren’t for Malcolm, and Gil—

Gil failed him. He failed. Gil is a _failure._ And if Malcolm is—

If Malcolm’s—

No, no, _no._ He can’t be, he can’t be, Christ have _mercy_ —

He’s breathless, heaving for air as he starts up the fifth and final floor, and as he shoves the door open and comes out into the cold night air again, he calls out, helplessly hoarse, “ _Bright!”_

Wind whistles in his ear, harsher up here than on the street when there’s no buildings around to block it, and he shivers, can’t imagine how cold Malcolm would be without his _coat._ “Bright! Bright?”

It’s dark, dark enough he needs to take out his flashlight, and even then it’s not enough, not nearly enough. He needs the lights to be on, he needs to find Malcolm _now,_ and if he’s not even here, if Gil’s just wasting time, if he’s made another wrong choice that costs Malcolm—

He hears the smallest, softest sound off to his right, and he turns on his heel, squinting. “Bright?”

The noise comes again, and then turns into violent, painful retching, obscured behind one of the barriers, and Gil is so goddamn relieved his knees nearly give out, nearly send him to the pavement as he walks forward. “Bright—”

He doesn’t get the rest out, because Malcolm is _sitting_ on the edge, and Gil’s light reflects off a pile of broken glass beneath him. At best, he falls forward and cuts himself up, needs stitches. At worst—

“ _Bright_ ,” he whispers. He can’t move, can barely _breathe._ "Bright...can you... _hey_...can you hear me?”

Malcolm mumbles something incoherent and then throws up again, swaying dangerously, and Gil carefully, _carefully_ climbs up over the barrier between them, doing what he can not to startle him.

“Hey...you’re not feeling good, are you? You’ve been drinking?”

Malcolm wipes at his mouth, flinching from the light in his eyes, and Gil quickly turns it off and tucks it away again. “Sorry, kid. It’s just a little dark up here.” Another gust of wind blows Malcolm’s hair about, and he visibly shudders, grabbing at his arms. “You must be freezing…”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says airily. “‘m cold…”

He sounds so damn small, sounds like he’s eleven, twelve, thirteen again, waking up from a night terror and climbing his way into Gil and Jackie’s bed again, desperately clinging to them as he cries. He sounds _helpless,_ he’s sounded nothing _but_ helpless since his rescue, and that’s never been who Malcolm is. He’s strong, far stronger than he’s ever known, but he’d never believe it when Gil told him.

And right now, it scares Gil even more, because it’s not just helplessness. It’s _defeat._ It’s the sound of a man so beaten down that he just can’t _take_ anymore. The sound of someone _giving up._

Malcolm can’t give up. Gil can’t _let_ him. He won’t. Not like this. He can’t have survived it all for it to end like _this._

“I can imagine,” Gil replies, keeping his voice quiet and soft, the way he always has when Malcolm needs him. “Do you think you wanna...come down? Come on, kid...I’ve got your coat in the car...we’ll get the heat turned up, and—”

"No," Malcolm says, reaching up to rub at his eyes, and Gil’s heart nearly stops as he leans back— _stop, stop, Malcolm, Christ,_ _please—_ and then catches himself before he can lose his balance, before he can tip backwards and fall five stories to end up broken to pieces just like his phone.

Five stories to his _death._ Gil would never forgive himself, not ever—he’d jump off right after him because he wouldn’t want to _live_ anymore, not after watching Malcolm slip through his fingers, watching him—

_Focus._

“N-no?” he dares to ask. “Why—”

Malcolm slams his palm down against the concrete, the sound making Gil flinch and cut off, looks out over the city and then down, far too contemplative. “ _Stop._ I don't...I want to...please don't. Please? I can't anymore."

"You don't have to do anything," Gil says, taking one careful step forward. "You don't have to do anything you don’t want to, Malcolm. Okay?”

“Fuck you,” Malcolm whispers. “ _Liar_.”

Gil’s breath catches in his throat. Cold hands close around his lungs, squeezing tight, and it takes a moment before he can force a shaky inhale, retrieve enough air to respond.

“Bright,” he starts. He’d like to say no. He’d like to say _of course I didn’t lie to you,_ because Malcolm trusts him more than anyone, trusts him to be the one who’s never hurt him...but he can’t. He can’t. It aches, deep inside him, and after swallowing hard, he continues with, “Please. Please, Bright. I-I want to explain—”

“ _Shut up.”_

Gil does. Malcolm’s gaze goes off again, and Gil moves just a little closer in the moment of distraction. He needs to get within range to grab Malcolm if this goes south, to grab his wrist or shirt or ankle, _something,_ because right now he fears he just wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Lied t’ me,” Malcolm finally says. His face is so pale it’s nearly glowing in the moonlight, and another violent shiver wracks him as he tries to speak clearly through chattering teeth. “Lied. T-trusted you, and you... _you..._ y’ lied.”

Gil doesn’t know what he can say. He doesn’t know what he can _do,_ because there’s no making this better. Not now, and he’s not sure if ever. “I’m so sorry—”

“ _Don’ say that._ ”

Gil lowers his head. Thinks about lowering himself down to beg forgiveness, if that’s what it takes. Instead, before he can do anything, Malcolm speaks again.

"Alone. I'm _alone_. I don't want...don't wan’ him here, I can't…" He presses two fingers to each temple. "No. Liar. _Liar._ "

Him? Who is _him?_ John? Or is he talking to someone else about Gil? "Bright, you're _not_ alone. I promise you, you’re not. Please. You have us, you—”

“I don’t want you,” Malcolm snarls. “Never wanna see you _again,_ get...get _away_ from me.”

Gil’s chest seizes again, and tears burn in his eyes. He hasn’t heard Malcolm sound this angry towards him since he was a teenager acting up, when it didn’t mean as much as it does _now,_ when it wasn’t really _real._ But this...this is, and it _hurts,_ hurts more that Malcolm has every right.

He holds his hands up, just enough to show his surrender, and manages, “Okay. That’s—that’s okay, Bright. Whatever you want. But you have your mom, Ainsley. _Sunshine._ ”

Malcolm sobs, reaching up to cover his face, to dig his palms into his eyes. “My _baby birdy…_ ” he chokes, and Gil is so goddamn _relieved_ to have gotten to him someway.

“Yes! Yes, your birdy! No one could love her as much as you do, Bright, no one. She needs you. You can’t leave her.”

“Shuddup,” Malcolm says again, far quieter, more slurred than before, but he’s scowling off to the side of Gil. Gil almost turns, knowing Dani is somewhere close, but then Malcolm shakes his head and leans again. “No. You’re…”

He mumbles something under his breath, like he’s having a _conversation_ with someone _,_ and Gil prays he’s not imagining things himself when he starts to hear sirens approaching in the distance. “You're having—Bright. I think...that you're hearing and seeing things. Aren't you?"

Malcolm shrugs, and then nods just enough to be seen, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and heaving it out, sounding more exhausted and done than ever. “Just want ‘em t’ stop...please...please...I can't…"

“He’s not here.” Gil takes another step, and another. Dani has climbed over the second barrier now, but stays a few feet behind Gil. Neither of them close enough, not yet, _not yet._ “Whoever you’re seeing, Malcolm. Watkins...your father…neither of them are here.”

“Him. Seein’ _him,_ ” Malcolm says, insistent, like Gil’s supposed to understand, and then looks up, once again stopping Gil in place. “G...mmm...G-Gil?”

“Yeah, kid?”

Malcolm squints at him, and then whimpers, so softly. “He hurt 'im. I’m sorry. I c-couldn’t stop it. I tr—I tri—I _tried._ I tried s-s-so _hard…_ ”

“I know,” Gil says. The sirens are louder now, their saving grace, and Gil is nearly beside him. He could grab him...but he wants so desperately Malcolm to come to him willingly, because putting his hands on him right now, when he’s so fragile and afraid, might end up with both of them careening down over the edge. “I know, kid. You tried. You’re strong, and you’re brave. Nobody’s blaming you. You know that, don’t you?”

Malcolm looks over to the side again, and then down. “He does.”

“Who’s he, Bright?”

Malcolm’s head lolls to the side, like he’s barely staying awake, and he jerks in a way that makes Gil’s heart skip a beat in fear before he finally says, “The man.”

“Which man?”

“The man in the cellar.”

_Malcolm. The man in the cellar, on the video._ Christ, is he so far gone right now that he thinks—?

“Said ‘m sorry," Malcolm goes on, less coherent than ever. "Didn’t mean t’...John hurt ‘im, and I...I c-couldn’...no, no, no, no I—I-I have t’ go. I have…’m sorry.” He breathes deep and sighs it out. “Can’t. No more. Just have to.”

He grips the edge, turning himself towards the empty space beyond with such clear intent that Gil cries out, “ _Malcolm!_ ”and lunges forward.

Malcolm looks back at him with suddenly bright, wide eyes, startled and confused as if only just realizing where he is. He sticks his arms out, flailing them as he starts to tip backwards—as he, for one terrifying moment starts to _fall—God, no, please—_

“ _No!”_

After what feels like something between an instant and eternity, Gil’s fist closes into Malcolm’s shirt. His other hand closes around Malcolm’s wrist, and he yanks, yanks with every bit of strength he has in him and pitches backwards. He hits the pavement hard, busts his elbows and the back of his head—

And so, _so_ mercifully, because there must be something, _something_ watching over them, he feels Malcolm collapse on top of him, knocking the breath from both of them.

It’s silent for a moment, far too silent for all the anxiety that’s been making Gil’s head buzz, replaced with a haze of echoes and disorientation and pain.

“My God—” Dani’s voice is the first thing Gil can hear, and then Malcolm’s gasping, and then his own.

“Don’t—” Malcolm whines. Gil blinks hard, struggling to shake off the daze making him feel like he’s trudging through mud as he drags his arms up, wrapping them around Malcolm as he squirms.

“I’ve got you,” Gil whispers, slowly, slowly managing to sit them both up, with Dani helping, hands slipped under Gil’s arms, dragging him up to rest against her. “Hey, hey, _kid…_ ”

“Liar—you _liar!”_ Malcolm scratches at him, but Gil bears the pain, holds him even tighter until he finally goes limp, sobbing like Gil’s never heard into his chest, inconsolable, _breaking,_ hand shaking as it fists Gil’s sweater.

"I'm sorry!” Gil says, starting to rock them both, knowing of nothing else he can possibly do to comfort his boy, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm so _sorry,_ Bright! I was trying to keep you safe. I didn't...I didn't know _how_ to tell you, I...you weren't supposed to—you weren’t supposed to see that! You were never—Bright, please, _God, kid,_ please...please, please, please, please..."

“I’m hurt,” Malcolm wails, “I’m hurt, it hurts, it _hurts,_ _please, no—let me—_ ” He tries to push away, tries to _get up_ , tries to, Gil knows, get back to the edge, to fling himself over it. “I have to _stop it,_ please, I can’t! I can’t, let go, _let go! Gil!”_

Gil cups the back of Malcolm's neck, strokes a hand up into his hair, forces him close again and shakes his head. "No. _No._ No, you can’t. You can’t do that. You have to stay—”

“I don’t _want to!”_

“I _know._ But I love you, I love you, Bright, and you have to. You have to. _Bright, stop…_ ”

The top of Malcolm’s head is soaked with tears Gil didn’t know he was crying. Dani’s hands are gentle and steady, one rubbing against his back, supporting him, the other grasping Malcolm’s shoulder, and she’s sniffling in his ear, and Malcolm tries to push away once more before he finally, finally stops.

“Please, God,” Gil prays, whispering it into Malcolm’s hair, because the boy is just as limp, just as cold and pale as he was after he slit his wrists at fifteen, as he was bleeding out in Gil’s arms, just like this, while Gil prayed, just like this. He needs guidance, he needs safety, he needs _Malcolm_. “Please. Please help. _Please_.”

Dani breathes out heavily, resting her forehead against Gil’s shoulder. Gil’s arms and legs are completely folded around Malcolm, keeping him protected, keeping him _safe,_ like he never could before. Like he failed to do with John Watkins, like he failed to do with the video, like he failed to do with everything else his boy has ever had to go through.

“It’s okay, Bright,” he weeps, unable to do a damn thing to stop the hiccuping sobs that choke his voice, “my Bright. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“Jus’...want...it...t’ _stop…_ ”

“I know. I know you do—”

“ _Help me.”_

“Oh, Bright. I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry. We’re going to get you help, okay? We’re going to help it stop.”

All he can hear are the sirens below, heavy footsteps on the metal stairs, and Malcolm, whimpering in between shallow breaths.

"You're safe," he whispers, and it's just as much for himself as Malcolm. "You're safe.”

“‘m not…”

“You _are_. I promise. I promise you.”

“I’m going to go to them, okay?” Dani asks, and Gil nods. He’s not going to move until he’s sure Malcolm isn’t going to have the chance to jump the second he lets go, maybe is never going to move again, if he can help it. He’d be fine, just to have Malcolm here, in his arms, forever.

But Malcolm needs help. Malcolm needs more help than Gil or any of them can give him. There’s no possible way they’ll let him go home, not until he’s been evaluated, and in _this_ state, the state he’s been in, only spiraling since the moment John Watkins came back into his life, Gil knows they won’t be letting him go any time soon.

So really, even as he tells Malcolm it’s okay, it’s more lies. Things aren’t okay. Things are worse than he could have ever imagined they would be. Things have _never_ been this bad.

But Malcolm's still alive, and breathing, and Gil has him. He rocks his boy in his arms, face pressed down against the top of his head, and murmurs, over and over again, “You’re safe, Bright. I’ve got you. It’s all over now.”

Because John Watkins is dead.

All that’s left to do now is deal with everything he left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm sees the video, and, to the surprise of no one, does not take it well. He gets very drunk, hallucinates a lot, and ends up on the ledge of the top level of a parking garage. He has the intent to jump off for the rest of the chapter, and eventually nearly falls when Gil and Dani are there, but Gil OF COUSRSE catches him and hugs him v tight. He is okay!


End file.
